The Mermaid's Ransom
by Rainne
Summary: Guinevere Turner appears to be a born pirate, seeming to have inherited only Will's treasure lust and Elizabeth's rebelliousness, taken to a spectacular degree. Her first plan? Find the mermaid's ransom and discover the secrets of her past.
1. Awake is a relative term

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, never will, so there.  
  
A/N: Hi. If anybody actually thinks I'm writing this for any other reason than the potential review bounty, or the fact that my mother royally pissed me off just after watching the movie, you are a FOOL! Just kidding, though you'd be amazed at what a wonderful muse fury is. Anyways, by all means enjoy my rage-induced little tale (at least the beginning of it anyway), and perhaps facilitate the gaining of that review bounty I just mentioned.  
  
Oh, by the way, chapters will most probably never EVER be this long again. Like I said, fury does wonders for the creative mind. Also, I'm doing something nutty with this fic and writing it in the present tense. This is my first time trying something like this, so bear with me, m'kay?  
  
  
  
Please, scream, I silently beg, stay inside my throat just a few minutes longer. I can't let it go here, not here; it would only make things worse. But the tingling ball in my throat will not be assuaged by my suppliants, and only increases its threat as the modest mansion set at the foot of the island's incongruous mountain comes into view. Mother and Father sit on both my sides in the rocking carriage, neither speaking nor looking at me. Not that that bothers me; no, anything they say could only serve to spur the scream of rage on, and that wouldn't be good for anyone. Except maybe me, for a moment or two anyway.  
  
I could kiss Robert from relief as he opens the door of the carriage with a practiced bow. Instead I dart from my seat and out of the small door in a flash. But the relief only fuels the scream so, with as much dignity as I can muster, I stalk up the white-washed stairs and into the warm house. Maria and Lucia are waiting by the door, also bowing to greet their returning masters. Normally I would stop for a chat, but I can feel the scream beginning to tighten its hold on the back of my throat, I know I am running out of time.  
  
Tripping ever so slightly on the hem of my gown in my haste, I break into a sprint halfway up the stairs. At long last, with one resounding slam of my door I arrive in my sanctuary. With one hand I rip off the long and ridiculously itchy wig on my head, and then promptly dive for my bed. Burying my face as deep into my pillow as possible, I scream. I scream so long I run out of air. I scream so hard that when I finally roll onto my back and pull the pillow away my throat feels as if it has been set aflame. I barely acknowledge the pain before smashing the pillow back onto my face and screaming again, a longer and harder scream than the first.  
  
Another three or four muffled eruptions later, my energy is spent, and I'm left cold and alone curled up on my bed. Thankfully this time the tears do not come soon after, though when I wake the next morning what I've dubbed the Official Scream Muffler was damp.  
  
  
  
"Guinevere, sweetheart," my mother's mellifluous voice drifts across my spectral dreams as a pink, noxious mist, "Are you awake?"  
  
"Awake is a relative term," I growl against the mattress.  
  
I don't think she'd heard me, but I suppose it was one of those things that happen when you became a mother. This reminds me as she glides into my sanctuary how little I want to have children, "Breakfast is ready," she says, looking down on me from on high, her little disappointment.  
  
"That's nice," I reply casually, keeping a steady gaze with her upside-down image.  
  
"Still feeling disagreeable, I see," she remarks with a delicately arched, chestnut colored eyebrow cocked. There is no denying it, my mother is a peerless beauty, as the old books say, despite the wrinkle of age here or the silvery strand of hair there.  
  
"If what you mean by 'disagreeable' happens to be pissed to bloody hell, then yes, yes I am still feeling disagreeable."  
  
I watch with twisted satisfaction as Mother's flawless face falls into a pout. I hadn't really meant to say it, but it seems to be happening more and more. In the early days I could keep such comments like that to myself, but now- well, now my mouth and the more politic parts of my brain aren't in such good touch as they used to be.  
  
"I don't know what to do anymore, Guinevere," Mother sighs dramatically, "Eat when you want." With that last comment drifting on the air she sweeps from my sanctuary, leaving only the smell of perfume in her wake.  
  
On my back, I stare at the fabric hanging over my four-poster, listening to my mother's footsteps on the creaky hardwood floor. As soon as the sound changes to the step-pause-step-creak-pause-step of the stairs I roll from my bed to the floor on all fours. I wait another beat before stealing silently to my door. Opening it as much as I dare, I peek into the hall and upon confirmation that it was deserted I whip through my door and plaster myself against the wall as quick and soundless as a mouse. A few furtive steps bring me to the stair well, where, lounging against the wall on the top step, I listen with a stone face to my parents' private conversation.  
  
"It's only getting worse, Will," Mother is saying, "I don't know what's happened. It started fairly innocent, a curse here or there, a late night out with no excuse, but now... Now she's as bad as any pirate, and what she did to her hair, and what she did last night- I can barely stand it anymore."  
  
I can see in my mind's eye Mother hugging herself, her brown eyes brimming with tears, as Father wraps his strong arms around her, his chin on her shoulder, "It's okay, Elizabeth, shh, it'll be okay..." Such a poor liar, my father.  
  
"No, no," contests Mother, her weepy voice wandering up the stairwell, "I don't even understand where she's getting it! We tried to keep her away from all that, for her own good, we PROMISED- how could we fail so miserably?" A very good question, Mother.  
  
"I don't know, Elizabeth, maybe we just haven't been giving sweet Guinevere enough attention..." At this I stop listening. My father, the respected, well-liked William Turner. Honest, brave, but at times incredibly stupid. I stifle my groan of exasperation into an inaudibly sigh and squeeze my eyes shut. More attention? More attention, Father, is that what you really think I need? Oh, you stupid, stupid man, have you any wits about you at all?! Do you even know me? The answer is no, it is always no, and I'll be damned if I'm going to stick around to see what new torture device he and Mother cook up to meet their goal. I reenter my room with all the noise of a sea breeze, and am out the window before the door closes.  
  
  
  
The only problem with my frequent covert escapes from the house of Turner is our head butler, an outwardly straight as an arrow German gentleman's gentleman named Adolph, who seems to derive some kind of sick pleasure from confounding my every attempt. A while back I'd decided that two could play at that game, and a game it had been ever since. The rules are as follows: he gets his jollies thinking of new ways to hinder my flight, I get practice dealing with challenging situations, and neither of us tells my parents.  
  
During this particular get away, I discover the most convenient rose trellis at the outside of the mansion's wrap-around porch below my window to be missing. I grin crookedly, that wacky Adolph, at least he's clever, if not terribly original. Double-checking that the three daggers placed about my person are secure, I crab-walk along the porch's roof to the edge and peer over. It's a good ten foot drop, though I'm a healthy five foot eight inches, plus my arms should cut that drop more than in half... The idea transforms my rakish grin into a full-fledged smile as I position myself with my butt hanging over the side of the roof, my hands grasping the roof's edge. With one last glance at the window into my sanctuary, I swing down and land in a crouch on the porch in seconds. For a beat I stay there, relishing the adrenaline pumping through my veins. Ah, nothing better, I think as I run down the lane that leads from the house to the city of Port Royal.  
  
  
  
"Gawain!" Peter calls from his usual seat in the back of the Mermaid's Tale Bar, a favorite haunt of mine. I smirk at my friend, slipping easily into my alter ego. It doesn't hurt I'm dressed in stolen men's clothing and have recently hacked my dark mane to a ghastly and undoubtedly masculine inch and a half from my head. I did it with the first dagger I ever bought, my lucky one, named Sparrow, for a certain bedtime character of my childhood. I'd never forget those stories my father told, just like I'd never forget the look on my parents' faces when I'd come down to breakfast the next morning. At the time I felt I'd finally triumphed over my parents, though that feeling greatly diminished when the wig came out. I take comfort in the feel of Sparrow in his place of honor on my right hip as I remember the oath I took after having the wig forced on me. By God and country, come hell or high water, nothing and nobody would take this dagger from me as long as I live.  
  
"Mornin', mate!" I return the greeting cheerfully, for Gawain has no family to drive him mad, and how I envy him for that.  
  
"In for a pint, are ye?" Pete says, eyeing me conspiratorially, "And then what? Robbin' the market, or maybe a simple pickpocketin' mission, lighten the purses o' a few wigs?"  
  
I recline in my delightfully uncomfortable wooden chair, my smirk gaining a lazy quality, "A little from column A..." I reply vaguely.  
  
Peter smiles big and bright like an excited child, his cheeks like two small apples, and sits back in his own chair, "So when we goin', Gawain, huh? Huh?"  
  
"Calm down, boy, 'fore ya' hurt yerself," I say, "Wait for Tom and Tuck, then we'll go." Pete looks slightly put out, but then notices the last remaining gulp of his beer and perks up after draining it. Richard, the barkeep, drops by with a beer for me and a refill for Pete. We both sit in companionable silence with our respective beverages until the sounds of a bar fight reach our ears.  
  
"That'll be them, then," Pete astutely surmises as Richard pries the identical dark-skinned boys from a few other Mermaid's Tale patrons.  
  
Holding the twins roughly by the shoulder as if he isn't a foot shorter than them, Richard barks, "If anymore o' your boys starts one more fight in dis 'ere establishment, yer all banned fer life! Ya' 'ear me, Gawain?"  
  
"Aw, c'mon, Ricky," I say, my voice all honey, "you can forgive the twins for bein' a tad rambunctious, can't ya'? You remember bein' a kid..." I pause, as if suddenly ponderous, "Oh wait, how long ago was that? Damn, musta' been ages, maybe you CAN'T remember."  
  
Richard's mouth puckers into a livid scowl, his heavily-lidded eyes go wide, "That's it!! I've HAD IT with you hooligans! Be gone, an' never darken this doorway again!" As he rages he corrals all four of us to the door. The space tightens as we all try to get through at once, "Go! Away wid' ye!" Richard is shouting.  
  
I try to turn my face to the furious barkeep, "Uh, we'd love to, Ricky, but could ya' give us a push?!"  
  
Richard decides after some more struggling to lend a helping hand, cruelly shoving us four through and sending each sprawling on the dirt ground.  
  
Tom is the first to pull himself into a sitting position, "What a way to start the day, eh, boys?" We three groan in agreement.  
  
I roll over and gingerly touch my aching shoulder. Ooh, that's going to be a bruise. Mother won't be happy since she got me that off-the- shoulder gown the day before. Good, a wicked and perverse corner of my brain hisses, let it be huge and dark, so no matter how much make up she puts on it, everyone will know what it is. I stagger to my feet, willing my head to stop spinning, "Whu-whoa, okay," I blink a few times to clear the spots from my eyes before firmly planting my feet on the ground. Ugh, it's like being drunk, only more painful.  
  
"Well, they's here now, Gawain," Pete gets to his feet, "Can we go?"  
  
I grin at him as the spots clear, "Aye, Pete, that we can," His face splits into that child-like beam of excitement and he practically skips at my side as we four descend into the sunlit bowels of Port Royal.  
  
"So what's on the menu today, Gawain?" Tuck asks as we strut down the dusty lane.  
  
"Yeah," Tom chimes in just after his brother, "'Ow ya' gonna top yesterday's little foray into the wigs territory?"  
  
I give them no answer beyond a lazy smile; I'm too busy enjoying the day. The sun beats down on our shoulders and bleaches the salt air blasted roofs of the shanty town as palm trees' green fingers rustle in the ever- present breeze. But all this takes a backseat to the delight of simply being Gawain, and NOT Guinevere. I could giggle with joy as I revel in the freedom that comes with the territory. As Gawain I am loved by some, feared by more, and respected by all. In the time I developed this little hobby, I, along with my trusty gang, have become infamous for our rabble-rousing and mischievous deeds. Instead of a girlish giggle, I let out a sharp crow as I spy the various eyes on us four from various windows, doorways, and rocking chairs.  
  
The murmurs that drift towards my ears are even better, "It's Gawain and 'is boys." "What're they up to now?" "Gonna be hell ta' pay, they ever get caught." Delightful.  
  
"You got more up your sleeve than the usual, dontcha', Gawain? I can see it in yer face." Tom spins around to walk backwards in front of me.  
  
Out of the corner of my eyes I can see the anticipation written on the other two members' of my gang's faces, but I can't give the game up yet, "Perhaps, gentlemen, perhaps."  
  
Peter's temper finally gets the best of him, "Aw, c'mon, Gawain! No more o' these vagaries, I can't take no more! Tell us yer plans!"  
  
I roll my eyes as if exasperated by irritating children, "Very well, you dogs, come wid' me." I turn into a deserted alley and we huddle close together, Pete on a knee, the twins side by side, and me leaning an arm against Tom's broad shoulder, "The wigs is givin' a great do by the docks today, see, ta' honor some Captain or what 'ave you fer services paid in the Royal Navy in executin' pirates." At this my boys grimace, but at the same time their eyes grow dark with sinister plotting. I have to say little more to convince them of our solemn duty as certified knaves, rogues, ruffians, and scoundrels to avenge our seafaring brothers and sisters in lawlessness. Almost instantly they take to my plan and have memorized their parts in it. Ah, what would I do without my boys?  
  
  
  
From the depths of the crowd I watch the be-wigged official reading from a piece of parchment. Beside him stand many seemingly identical uniformed military men, the only way to discern the honoree from the rest was the look of blissful awe radiating from his face. I want to smack him. I want to yell to him how ridiculous it all was, how pointless. "You can't take it with you!" I want to shout, but I don't. No, I have a boat to catch.  
  
Glancing away from the pomp to the unassuming ship in the harbor, I spot the signal with a grin. A small black flag, little more than a tablecloth, flutters just under the grand Union Jack. Showtime, I think as I bow out of the crowd.  
  
"All 'arights, first mate Peter Tooley?" I ask as I climb aboard the ship.  
  
Peter makes a show of looking around the all but empty vessel, "All goin' accordin' ta' plan, Captain Gawain Burns."  
  
"Just what I want ta' hear, first mate. Where's the rest o' the crew?"  
  
"Right here, Cap'n!" call the twins from the boxes of gunpowder and fireworks loaded on the ship's bow. When I first came across this whole event my first thought was precisely, "Fireworks in the morning?" But this IS rich folk we're dealing with, and, though loathe to admit I'm one of them (however, saying I was a wig is the same as saying if a cat is born in the water, it's a fish), I never attempt to glean logic from their doings. Might as well make the best of their odd ways, and the twins are making an excellent example of that very precept.  
  
Absconding with the pyrotechnics is blessedly simple thanks to Pete's skillful dispatching of the ship's guards. Now comes the tricky part. Thankfully for us the fireworks appear as little more than your average bit of cargo, so, as we cross the harbor, our arms loaded with boxes, back to the ceremony, no one gives us a second glance. A small contingent of soldiers jogs past us and onto the ship, and I can't contain a wicked smirk. Oh, if all went according to plan, this will be some fun.  
  
I check the time on a clock tower over the harbor's entrance, 8:56, and pick up the pace. The fireworks are set to go off at 9:00, and we have a lot to do in the next four minutes.  
  
"Hey, get outta' the way!" I shout as brusquely as possible, "Come on, people, move it! We got deliveries ta' make."  
  
The boys must have sensed our slight predicament and so also begin berating the swarm of people in various colorful ways to make space. They comply, and in another minute we have split up to do our respective jobs. At 8:59, all four of us are sitting at the top of the stone building that overlooks the ceremony. Pete is near bouncing with excitement, while Tom and Tuck lean out over the proceedings as far as they dare. I lean against the warm stone, waiting quietly, the smirk eternal.  
  
"And now," the big wig says, "to celebrate this joyous occasion, a fireworks display can be seen in the harbor." The official, the honoree, the military men, and the audience all turn to the sea, and charged silence reigns as the clock tick-tocks its way to 9:00.  
  
BONG!! The clock tower sounds the first of its nine bells to ring in the new hour. An explosion does go off, but not where the wigs expect it. Instead of on the safety of the ship, the firework shoots into the sky at the rear of the audience. We four let out whoops of delight as the rocket fires not five feet from our very toes.  
  
BONG!! Another explosion, this also not on the ship, but to the left of the audience. A wave of panic sweeps through their numbers as people have the simultaneous thought to take their hasty leave.  
  
BONG!! This one sends clouds of dust into the air, blinding the wigs on the stage. Tuck and I shard a handshake on that one.  
  
BONG!! A fourth firework serves its purpose right before the stage. Some of the blinded wigs are even knocked back into their peers by its force. The audience is rushing from the area in whimpering streams.  
  
BONG!! Directly in the middle of where the audience had been standing, the scattered pops of firecrackers ring out, quickly joined by a chorus of screams and shouts, "How did you DO that?!" Tom shouts in my direction. I earn three hearty pats on the back.  
  
BONG!! The ceremony in complete disarray, not many notice the explosion on the boat which sends hunks of glistening fruit into the air instead of colorful sparks. But we notice, and nearly killed ourselves laughing at the sticky and thoroughly bewildered soldiers on the deck. The last four BONGS leave the soldier's sterling red and white uniforms multicolored messes.  
  
Pete has to work around his guffaws to congratulate me, "Genius! Ha ha ha, the boy's a bloody genius! Ha ha!"  
  
I turn to the twins, awaiting their praise. They lean on each other, wiping tears from their eyes and grabbing their sides for the pain. As their mirth subsides they notice my gaze. Tuck tries to stifle his smile, "I ain't gon' deny it, Gawain, that was some fun." Tom nods, still unable to speak for his laughter.  
  
  
  
Feeling perfectly invincible, my gang and I strut through the streets as if we are the rulers of the world. We're met by various looks, some disapproving, but most range from envious to fearful to jubilant to congratulatory. We soak them all in, reveling in the attention. We're untouchable now, that stunt I know will make us the talk of the town. No one will question if it was our doing, they all know, and that's the way we like it. Applause actually heralds our entrance to one of the larger taverns of Port Royal, The King's Compass.  
  
"Is it just me or are bars always named The Something's Something? Mermaid's Tale, King's Compass, and the like," I wonder aloud over my drink. It is dark now, I'd slipped back to the house of Turner, just to keep any suspicion at bay. That's what we always do to make sure we didn't catch any heat from our latest escapade. Each goes to his or her respective homestead until after dark, then the night is spent in triumphant partying.  
  
"Dunno," Tom replies, "Seems like it, though, don't it?" Tuck nods and takes a sip of his ale.  
  
"That was great, though, eh?" Pete reminisces, still caught in the afterglow of our crime.  
  
"Yeah, best yet." Tuck shoots me a significant look, "What's next?"  
  
Bloody hell, I shout in my head, suddenly irate, "Do I gotta entertain you slobs every blessed second? I don't know what's next, Tuck, alright? Can't I jis' sit an' enjoy my beer wid'out you all makin' me work up somethin' else for ya' ta' do?" I lower my legs from the table and sit low in my chair, arms crossed and face emotionless beyond stony rage.  
  
"Nah, Gawain," Peter tries to pacify me, "Nah, you don't gotta do nothin' right now, right boys?" Tuck and Tom quickly nod and murmur their agreement, "Right. We jis' gonna do like you says, boss, an' drink our beers and relax, right?" Again the twins agree, "Right."  
  
An older male voice shouts from nearby in the crowded tavern, "'Ey, Burns, get yer arse over 'ere!" With a still irritable glance at my boys I walk over to the voice, knowing full well whose it is.  
  
"Aye, Gibbs?" I greet the aged man as I lower myself into a seat at his table.  
  
Gibbs' beady, dark eyes sear me from behind a gray fringe of hair, "Twas some stunt ye pulled this morn'."  
  
I smile with pride, though aware he isn't being complimentary, "Yes, it was, wasn't it?"  
  
Gibbs leans close, fixing me with a stern glare, "Lass, ya' be goin' too far wid' all these stunts, ya' hear me? Yer attractin' attentions yer not wantin', missy."  
  
My eyes rapidly scan the tavern, making sure nobody has heard the old man's alternative for either of my names, "Would you not do that, Gibbs? Folks round 'ere don't know I'm a girl an' I quite like it that way."  
  
Gibbs leans back in his chair with a tired sigh, "I know ya' do, Gwen- Gawain. But ya' can't expect ta' go on like this forever. Yer comin' o' age, yer parents will be wantin' ta' marry ya' soon, and then what? Sneak outta yer husband's house ta' party wid' yer boys? Ha! Not too likely, missy."  
  
I droop in my seat, knowing the truth to his words, "I know yer right, Gibbs. The day of reckonin' swiftly approaches. I'll have ta' make my decision soon."  
  
Gibbs favors me with a paternal smile I've known since childhood, "Whichever way ya' choose ta' go, child, in fair winds or bad, I'll stick by yer side."  
  
I duck my head to hide my forthcoming tears of gratitude. "Aye, Gibbs, I know," I say and make tracks for my boys.  
  
"Ya' arights now, Gawain?" Peter asks, still concerned. All heart, that one.  
  
"Aye, Pete, all's forgotten," I reply with my usual crooked grin, if tinged with melancholy. I never thought I'd be glad for the twins' almost bizarre talent for starting bar fights, but there I am, happily trading blows with a drunken sailor, my depression long gone.  
  
Coming home, bruised but jubilant, I find Adolph has somehow changed the locks on the mansion's doors while I was away. Pausing for a moment of thought, I dash around to the side of the house and, sure enough, the sliver of a window into the cellar is unlocked. Silly German, I think as I wriggle into the dark room, too easy!  
  
  
  
Another day, I think, another eavesdropped conversation. I shift on the wooden step, wondering if a person's butt can go flat if they sit too long on a smooth surface. It's the old conversation downstairs, "I don't know what to do, Will!" "Shh, it'll be alright, Elizabeth." Though this time talk of finishing schools is breached, I perked up on that, but the topic passes with little discussion. I'm vaguely touched that for all the hell I put my folk's through, they still aren't quite willing to part with me yet. On the other hand, however, the sentiment puts an extra weight on the decision I have to make quite soon. As the conversation dies down I make for my trusty window, this time having to sneak under the other windows along the porch roof and shimmy down a close-growing tree. Adolph has removed any handholds on the roof's edge for me to swing from.  
  
"Ricky!" I call as I enter the Mermaid's Tale, "How's my favorite barkeep?"  
  
The hot-tempered man squints in pain at my loud words, and I notice a towel full of dripping ice pressed to his temple. Apparently me and the boys weren't the only ones partying last night. "Curse ye, Gawain Burns! Didn't I tell ye' never ta' set foot in this establishment ever again?"  
  
"Nah," I reply easily, "You must be thinkin' o' some other Gawain." Richard nods uneasily, but says nothing as he gets me a beer. Taking a sip, I decide now is as good a time as any to pose a question that has been on my mind, "Hey, Rick, jis' what IS the Mermaid's Tale? I assume there's somethin' behind the name. Either that, or yer jis' a bad speller."  
  
Richard glances up from the cups he's drying, "Aye, boy, there be a true Mermaid's Tale."  
  
"Well," I say impatiently as he continues his work, "Are ya' gonna tell it, or are ya' waitin' fer me ta' buy another drink?"  
  
"Cool yer heels, young buck. If I'm gonna tell it, I'm gonna tell it right," his voice dips low and ominous at his next words, "for she's not a tale to be told poorly."  
  
"Alright, alright," I groan as he cleans his last vessel, then closes the door to the Mermaid's Tale, "Ya' got me shakin', old man, happy? Now give it up!"  
  
"Very well, child, very well, don't get yer britches in a bunch." Richard returns to the bar, apparently feeling the mood to be set, "This is an old tale to be sure, nearly as old as the sea, fer that's jis' about when it takes place, when the gods an' man lived side by side, an' the world was new." I try not to roll my eyes, though I can't help but be interested in the man's words.  
  
"In that strange time lived a man, a fine sailor an' fisherman, but very greedy. He'd do anything if he thought there was profit ta' be had in it, no matter how foolhardy, dangerous, or even cruel. So one day this foolish man goes out in his boat. That season had been hard on the fishermen, so he had ta' travel far from safe waters ta' find so much as a minnow. As he dragged in the first haul he found ta' his surprise that he'd somehow caught a mermaid in his net. Her green scales flashed in the sun an' her voice was damn near intoxicatin' as she begged him ta' let her go.  
  
"She told this man her father was king o' all the oceans, King Poseidon, and he'd do anything ta' have his favorite daughter back. This gives that vile man an idea. He refused to let her go an' instead dragged her back ta' his hovel. There he says ta' her if her father loves her so much, he'll pay a grand ransom fer her rescue. So he orders the lovely creature ta' send a message to the king, givin' a list o' demands, including ta' be made king o' the land and, naturally, a staggerin' sum o' gold fer the safe return o' his daughter.  
  
"The great King Poseidon received this message, and, fearin' fer his daughter's safety, decided it'd be best ta' succumb ta' the mad mortal's requests. When the answering message reached the man, feeling he'd outsmarted the god, he went near mad wid' pride an' greed. Immediately he readied his boat and placed the princess mermaid in it, so anxious was he ta' collect his gold and title as king o' the land. However, on the way his unending greed got the better o' him, an' he began plottin' a horrible scheme ta' further fox the king o' the seas.  
  
"However, Poseidon was no fool, he expected the pitiful mortal ta' be overcome wid' greed, an' planned for it most cunningly. When the fisherman came ashore o' the island beyond any known borders o' man where the god said they'd meet, Poseidon was already there. Seein' the awful glint of madness in the mortal's eye when he spotted the great treasure which lay spread out on the island's beach, the king knew he was right ta' be prepared. The man told the king his daughter awaited him in the boat, an' he should go ta' her. Poseidon did so, wid'out mentionin' ta' the foolish mortal that if he so much as touched one coin o' the treasure 'fore he found his daughter, the island would sink an' he'd ne'er be heard from again. As soon as the great god was out of sight, the man dove fer the treasure, and the island sank into the sea, wid' all its treasure an' the greedy fisherman, never ta' be seen again. Poseidon found his daughter in a cave on the other side o' the island, an' they had a good laugh o'er the foolishness o' mortals. But sailors that've come ta' this bar have claim ta' sights o' an island where no island should be, glintin' in the moonlight as if somethin' shiny be lyin' on its beach. They claim ta' hear the song o' the mermaid, callin' fer any greedy men ta' try an' take the ransom o' the mermaid princess." Richard stands back from the bar, appearing satisfied with his retelling.  
  
"So there's still a treasure out there?"  
  
"Aye, an' a great one, great as all the seas together, as it come from the king o' the seas."  
  
"Huh," I sit back on my chair, thinking on Richard's tale. It sounds pure fantasy, but the wheels begin to turn as my father's bedtime stories drift through my head. Stories filled with ghosts and curses and hidden treasures, tiny portions of which can make a man rich beyond his wildest dreams. I turn my eyes on the grimy window of the Mermaid's Tale at the sapphire blue of the sea. The wheels pick up in speed. The sea, I always loved it, when my grandfather the governor would take me out as he'd done with my mother as a child, I cherish those memories almost as much as the stories. I know my way around a ship as well, but can I risk it? The answer is a firm maybe. I drain my beer, "Thanks fer the story, Richard, I think I'm gonna be off."  
  
"What're ya' plannin', Guinevere Turner?" a voice says quite clearly and directly in my ear as though not a foot away.  
  
It hadn't sounded like Richard much at all, but I whip around in shock anyway. "What did you say, Ricky?" I gasp.  
  
Richard looks bemused, "I says yer not waitin' fer yer boys then, Gawain Burns?"  
  
I blink and try to regain my composure, speaking in an even huskier voice than usual to try to mend my damaged cover as I back out of the door, "Oh- uh- no, no, not today, got some stuff ta' do down by the ol' shack." I should simply stop speaking there, but remember what I said about my politic brain and my mouth? Well, conditions have not improved, "Nothin' special, jis' average village stuff. Look, don't even bother telling the boys I was here, it shall only worry them. Wouldn't want to do that, now, would we?" As the last of my affected accent withers away I flee from the bar and don't stop until I'm back in my sanctuary.  
  
  
  
A/N: Well, there ya' have it. Hope I didn't lay on the dialect too thick for yall. Dunno when I'll get around to updating, so I hope you're not all too enraptured with my tale, cuz it may be a while before it continues. 


	2. Things can't stay as they are

A/N: Inspiration strikes again! And I was right in the middle of a movie too... Well, better for you folks reading this, I suppose. Thanks are in order for N'Isil for that email review and Jade Hsieh (you got the spelling right, I'll try to read yours soon), and enjoy chapter two!  
  
  
  
I have a wonderful gift for knowing when I'm dreaming. It's spared me from many a nightmare throughout my life. If the politic parts of my brain are more taciturn these days, that indescribable area in which dreams come to be is my closest ally. I do my best thinking when I'm asleep, if that makes any sense.  
  
In this nocturnal sojourn I find myself unsurprisingly steering a grand ship through a murky fog. Unease makes me nervous, I feel a storm brewing to the west, coming fast. I'm not alone on the boat, but the crew around me seems made of shadows and they treat me as if I'm a shadow to them. Their blurry shapes could be that of my gang, maybe also my parents, maybe only strangers, but they remain just out of focus. They busy themselves with ship duties unaware of the coming trouble. I tilt the wheel east, hoping the burgeoning winds of the storm could blow us out of harm's way. To my surprise, it works, and the fog begins to lift slightly. A glint catches my eye in the distance. Squinting at it, I'm almost blinded as the sun suddenly radiates light upon a small island with masses of gold gleaming and shimmering and sparkling along its sandy beach. My spectral crew seems to dissipate in the glow so all that remains is me, guiding my vessel towards my fortune.  
  
About this time that moment of realization that comes in every dream arrives. I blink at the abrupt shock; it's not real, the island is not real and any gold upon it will be left there. You can't take it with you, the phrase drifts across my mind. I find myself wondering about that honoree, of all things, as I continue to approach the island.  
  
"What's he up to, now that he's a decorated officer?" I looked to my left to see a mirror reflection of myself leaning against the ship's railing.  
  
"How should I know?" I ask her. I'm not alarmed by her presence. Like I said, I do my best thinking in dreams, but it's no good doing it alone. I need someone to bounce ideas off of. So, I bounce them off myself.  
  
"He was cute."  
  
"Yeah," I reply acridly, "in an over-eager puppy dog kind o' way. You jis' wait an' see they'll get to him soon enough... Besides, that's not your point."  
  
My reflection looks mildly defeated, but it's just an act, "You're right, 's not. Do you want that treasure?" She tilts her head towards the dazzling mountains of gold on the beach that never seems to get closer, though we're still sailing towards it.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"My point is," I perk up at this. It's very rare that I straight out say what I'm driving at, "Maybe he's not so attached to his uniform as he seems."  
  
I grin at her, "Yer talkin' gibberish! Did you see his face on that podium? 'Bout ta' piss himself, he was so happy. An' let's not forget exactly what he was bein' honored for: the merciless execution of scores of pirates! Or have we forgotten our sea-farin' counterparts?" The image says nothing, but looks appropriately cowed, "That's right. So jis' what exactly makes you think he'd help me?"  
  
"Dunno," she says, her timid look melting back into a sly smile, "Jis' a feelin'."  
  
"Yeah, well, feelings don't win treasure." We both nod sagely at each other. I look out at the island, which actually seems farther away than ever. I feel a depression coming on, a weight in my eyes and neck. Looking behind me I see why I won't make it to the luminous island. Great iron chains bind the ship's backend to the house of Turner, which stands tall and immovable amongst the waves. The raging storm I just barely escaped was approaching behind the house, and this time I let it take me with a tired sigh.  
  
  
  
The next time I sigh is at my image, only this one can't talk back, encased as it is in the confines of an actual mirror. It also doesn't look much like me, with its fine day dress on, and a tumble of dark curls falling past its shoulders. Whenever I put the wig on I'm reminded of how girly I can look. Not that I'm anything to compare with someone like my mother. No, it's nigh impossible to compare the two of us, we're so different. Father insists my mossy green-brown eyes come from his mother, but again Will Turner's not much of a liar. My small chin and high cheekbones could be called reminiscent of my mother, but I know there is simply no accounting for my skin. It's darker than both my parents' could ever hope to be. Now, that effect is augmented by my time outside, but I recall an incident in which Mother felt attempting to box me into the house for a few weeks might diminish my unfavorable facets. At the time of my release, my color was the only thing that diminished, and that only quite slightly.  
  
"Are you ready, Guinevere?" Lucia calls from outside my room.  
  
"As I'll ever be," I murmur to the reflection that is not me. I'm about to respond to Lucia when I hear Mother scolding her for using my Christian name.  
  
"You are working in this house, I am paying you. Now, would you pay a craftsman of any sort if you received a shoddy product from them?" There is a pause as I imagine Lucia's mumbled reply. Mother continues, "Of course not, and I do not want a shoddy product from you. As such, you will adhere to proper protocol-"  
  
"That's quite enough, Mother," I say coolly as I fly to Lucia's defense, "I asked her to call me Guinevere." Without explanation I take Lucia's arm in mine and guide her down the hall, ignoring Mother's gaze boring into my back and saying quietly, "We'll have to be more careful about that, haven't we?" We share a hushed giggle as we walk to the carriage waiting outside.  
  
  
  
Mother started taking me to these little luncheons when I was twelve. After the very first one I knew this wasn't the life for me. Since then I've proven that inane chatter is only fun when inebriated. Otherwise, it's as boring as the do crafted by the victims of yesterday's stunt. Nearly as pointless, as well.  
  
"Pass the marmalade."  
  
"Please, Guinevere, try to remember please. It's a request, not an order."  
  
"Maybe for you."  
  
"Don't mumble, Guinevere, people would like to hear what you are saying."  
  
"I doubt it."  
  
"Still mumbling, sweetheart. Oh, what was that Mrs. Odell?"  
  
For about the hundredth time I wish Sparrow was here. Obviously I can't bring him to one of these upper crust get-togethers, but his absence is more than noticeable. It feels as if there's a hole in my clothing at my right hip, and a clammy wind continues to brush my skin. I once attempted to get Father to make me a sheath for Sparrow at my calf where I could carry him undetected, but it was hopeless. I'd never seen my father so adamantly against anything, but that revelation went unnoticed when we launched into a fight about me having a dagger at all. He threatened to take Sparrow initially, and it took a lot of fancy footwork, verbally- speaking, to stay true to my oath. I am currently saving up to buy a sheath from the local tanners. Unfortunately my only source of revenue of late comes from the beers I don't pay for at the Mermaid's Tale, for one reason or another.  
  
Oh well, better make the best of a boring situation. I turn to the nearest female wig, a woman old enough to give my great-grandmother a run for her money, and start talking. You see, it's not that I don't know all the social graces; I simply choose not to employ them, much to my mother's chagrin. At this moment, I am the most sophisticated, charming, polite young lady this old biddy has ever met.  
  
"I do love the Caribbean dearly, but I just cannot seem to get along without London's shopping district. The sun and the parties and the people are all well and good, but WHERE can I find a decent bargain on a good pair of dancing slippers?"  
  
"Oh, my dear, I quite know you're plight, I am experiencing it myself as of late. My husband, the former high chairman of the agriculture board you know, and I arrived here quite recently and I am simply wasting away for London."  
  
The conversation goes on in this mind numbing vein until I can stand it no longer, a whole twenty minutes. I smile inwardly, a new record, "Hm, yes, I quite agree. Though it must be difficult to get an animal to sit still for a portrait for very long. Oh, by the by, did you know that only humans and dolphins have sex for pleasure?"  
  
"Guinevere!" Mother's voice rings out over the party. Apparently she caught the show, "Come, my darling child, we must be leaving!"  
  
I turn to the biddy to take my leave, though I'm not sure she hears it. Her face, already a spider web of wrinkles, is now pale as a sheet and about as responsive as one too, "Good day to you, madam, I hope we shall meet again."  
  
As I glide from the party I hear a muttered "Young people, why I never!" from behind and end up giggling through Mother's chastisement in the carriage.  
  
  
  
"That's it! That's it, that's it, that's it, that's it!" This exclamation seems to be the only thing Mother is capable of saying to her husband during their nightly discussion in the parlor.  
  
"What's it, darling?" Again, the image downstairs unfolds before my mind's eyes. Mother paces in circles around the room; Father walks behind, trying to catch up. I hear a chair scraping and fabric rustling; Mother has sat down at the parlor's desk.  
  
"What are you writing, Elizabeth?" Father's voice sounds strange, as if dreading the answer.  
  
"This has been a long time coming, Will. We broke our promise, it's time we notified Jack of it." I blink in my seat. Jack? Who's Jack? My mind wanders over the innumerable brunches and dinners and parties and holidays, searching for some Jack my parents introduced me to, but it comes up blank. The only Jack I know is the one from my father's stories.  
  
"No, Elizabeth, we haven't broken anything. And besides, just how do you expect any letter to find him. WE don't even know where he is!"  
  
"We HAVE broken it and I WILL find a way to him. He must know we can't take care of her anymore." The realization hits me like my father's heaviest hammer. Jack must be someone from a boarding school, and a horrid one at that. That's it then, I think as unwanted tears well up, they've finally had their fill of me.  
  
"Have you noticed that we haven't gotten any news from him in six years? No letters, no money, not even the hint of his name in the streets. I don't know about you, but I think he may be dead." Upstairs I cock an eyebrow at Father's words. Why would the headmaster of a boarding school send my parents money? Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? And just what would kill him? For some reason, I couldn't see this Jack as a decrepit man who would keel over if you coughed on him.  
  
Even from the stairwell I can hear Mother's sharp intake of breath, "Don't say that, Will! He's our only hope!" There's a pause before my mother speaks again, "I suppose the best way to get this letter to him is to send it to the last address he gave us." I hear the rustling of papers and creaking of opening desk drawers and bite back a rush of indignation. So my own parents have been corresponding with some covert boarding school tyrant in the very parlor I grew up in! This emotion is quickly replaced by bitter humor. As if I wasn't leading a secret life as a boy, becoming famous as a thief and rogue! I suppose we all have our secrets.  
  
In the flurry of emotions, I stop listening to my parents until I hear my mother's cry, "But there's no return address on here!"  
  
"Of course there's not, Elizabeth," Father says, sounding tired and frustrated, "Has there ever been? That last letter was given to me at the docks by some stranger. The entire length of our conversations was, 'You Turner?' 'Yes.' 'Letter for you.' I got the letter, never saw him again. Do you really expect Jack to use any regular postal channels? I'm surprised none of the letters washed up to shore in a bottle!"  
  
"Yes," Mother replies in a defeated tone, "I suppose it was foolish of me."  
  
Another rustle of fabric tells me Father has wrapped her up in a hug, "Just give it a bit longer, love. There's no harm in that. Maybe another letter is on the way, but things could work out themselves before that. We don't have to bring Jack back into this, it's our affair now." Sometimes I love my father to pieces.  
  
"No," Mother says, her voice suddenly steel, "No, things aren't working out, Will! You're not there, and you don't see the things she does. She doesn't have to be our affair!" Sometimes I hate my mother to pieces.  
  
"Oh, Elizabeth-"  
  
"I must find a way to tell him. Things can't go on like they are, I'll go mad!" The heavy creaking of floorboards testifies to Mother's resumed pacing, "He told us to keep her away from that life, at any cost. He didn't want that for her. I don't understand what happened. And now he up and disappears just when we need him! Well, now isn't that just like Jack."  
  
"Elizabeth, you know that's not true. He's always been there when we need him. He's a-"  
  
"I know, Will, I know. 'He's a good man' just like you always say. Well, what kind of a man dumps a child into our laps then runs back to sea?!" I have to stifle my own sharp intake of air. All my boarding school notions fly out of the proverbial window. Who IS this Jack?!  
  
Father's reply is measured and calm, "The kind of man who wants that child to have a different life than what he can give her."  
  
Creeping down three more steps, I peer into the parlor. I have to see what the scene actually looks like, not my mind's image of it. I see Mother sitting on the floor, her skirts pooled around her. She doesn't look tired and old, like I expected. Instead she looks young and naïve, far too much so to take care of a child, let alone one like me. I see Father looking at her while sitting sideways in the desk chair. He too appears young and lost in grown-up matters, not ready for the real world.  
  
"But you ARE right, Elizabeth," Father continues, "Things can't stay as they are. Decisions must be made. We'll talk in the morning." My trusty and creaky floor alerts me to my parents' approach, and I tuck myself into the shadows as they enter the master bedroom. As the door shuts, I summon all my talents of stealth to make no noise whatsoever in my journey to the desk in the parlor.  
  
Amidst all the drama, the drawer was left open and I silently thank whoever is listening for the favor. Inside the drawer lay at least a dozen pieces of paper. Large and small, fresh and weather-beaten, long and short notes. All of them are addressed to the Turners. I pull them all out and, suddenly feeling exposed, leave the parlor and reenter my sanctuary. Once safe on the floor next to my bed, I read each and every last letter with a pounding heart. Once finished, I put them back into the drawer, keeping only the very first for myself. I read that one until it is committed to memory.  
  
"To Will and Elizabeth," I whispered, "Let's get the pleasantries out of the way. I hope this letter finds you well and happy, been a while since we last spoke. If you haven't already guessed, I've got a favor to ask of you both. If you're reading this, that means Anamaria did her job and you now find yourselves in possession of a baby girl. Don't jump to any conclusions, firstly. Secondly, I'd like you to look after her for me. So far, unless it's been longer than I thought, you've remained childless since your marriage. Well, let me get the hard part out of the way by giving you a child, fully formed, no strings attached. Don't say this isn't a good deal; I don't have to worry about this little girl, you get your very own first born, and Elizabeth gets to keep her girlish figure." I can't help but laugh at that. This Jack must know my parents very well indeed, "I'll be stopping by in a spell to see how you're getting on with little Guinevere, that's the name we-" The next few lines of the letter are blotted out, as if thought little of in revision, "That's her name. I'm also sending along a few pounds. If you send them back Will and I shall have a rematch and this time I won't go easy on him, savvy? My best regards to you both and Guinevere, Captain Jack Sparrow."  
  
It's a short note, short enough to be folded into a square and slipped into the secret compartment I'd found as a child in the top drawer of the small dresser by my bed. I lie down on the sheets, my thoughts a whirlwind in my head. I'll have interesting dreams tonight.  
  
  
  
A/N: See, toldja' it'd be shorter. So what do you think? My greatest fear is to write a Mary Sue, I think it shows an enormous lack of creativity on the writer's part and does a disservice to the reader. I actually didn't expect the truth to come out so soon, but such is life, I guess. Review please, many nice reviews + free time = new chapter, but you all know that. 


	3. But you won't stop me from being who I a...

A/N: Hello, all, hope you're happy to see me back and writing again. Review thank you's go to evanescence kix ass (sorry if I screw up your penname, but I deleted the email ff.net sends w/ the review and for some reason it's not showing up w/ the other review so I can't check it), and... Oh, wait, ONLY evanescence kix ass. Huh, well, thank you very much evanescence kix ass, your support is much appreciated. Enjoy chapter three!  
  
  
  
The next few days pass as they do in my dreams. I'm somehow outside it all, watching, but only vaguely participating. I watch my parents- benefactors? - go about daily business. I've stopped eavesdropping on their conversations, as if I've reached some pinnacle, the ultimate secret, and any other tidbit I pick up is worthless in comparison. However, the price of such respect for privacy is a whole new secret: What are they planning to do with me now? I have no idea, but it can't be good. I don't change my behavior though; it would be far too suspicious if I did. No- for some reason I don't want them to know I know their little secret. I hold it up inside of me, make it mine, and when Mother- Elizabeth? Mrs. Turner? - scolds me, I'm barely listening. I'm wondering what my real parents are doing, and if they'd care if I spill hot tea on Madam What's-her-face at Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so's brunch. From what I can garner from Jack's letters, not too bloody likely.  
  
Ah, the letters, my new prized possessions. Well, my new prized secret possessions, since no one knows I know anything about them. I read them nearly every night now, and my mind swirls with possibilities. The pirate's life is a hard one to be sure, but it seems to be in my blood, so how hard can it be? Captain Jack Sparrow, childhood hero, my role model in many respects- and my true father? In the letters he never comes right out and says he is, but I expect that. Father or no we're too of a kind; I can easily picture his writing to mirror his speech, winding, twisting, and hard to follow if you don't know how. But I know how, because I'm the same way, and that fills me with happiness, pride, and even comfort. I feel closer to my gang now than ever before now that blood doesn't tether me to the house of Turner. For now I am simply waiting, but I doubt my rising curiosity will allow that to go on for much longer.  
  
  
  
"Gibbs! Get up, ya' ol' booze hound!" I shout at the prone figure in the backroom of the Mermaid's Tale. I nudge at the elderly man with the toe of my boot, but still get no response.  
  
"Still not able ta' 'waken him, eh?" I hear Richard's smug voice say from the doorway behind me. I roll my eyes and sigh with irritation but grudgingly hold out my hand, "Knew you'd see things my way," the voice says and a mug of ice cold water is pressed into my waiting hand, "What do you say?"  
  
"Thank you ever so kindly, Richard," I reply through clenched teeth. Bloody hell, how I hate to be proven wrong. Sighing once again at Gibbs I toss the water square in his face.  
  
"Gah! Blimey, tha's cold!" the man splutters as his tiny eyes bug open and bolts into a sitting position, "Ah, good mornin', Gawain. And you, Richard." I slip Richard his copper as discreetly as possible as Gibbs attempts to mop up his brow with the collar of his drenched shirt. He follows Richard and me out to the bar.  
  
"Had a good time last night, did ya', Gibbs?" I ask as we sit together in an out of the way table in the back.  
  
The man at least has the decency to look embarrassed, "Aye, Gawain, that I did. Thanks fer puttin' an ol' codger up last night, Richard." The barkeep nods as he serves us our drinks and leaves.  
  
Gibbs and I sit and drink quietly for a spell, don't want him to put his guard up too quickly. But my stomach is tossing in agitation, so the silence doesn't last long, "Hey, Gibbs?" I ask innocently, as if the coming question was of no more importance than the weather.  
  
"Aye?"  
  
"You remember those stories you an' Father used ta' tell me? 'Bout Cap'n Jack Sparrow?"  
  
The aged seaman coughs almost imperceptibly on his drink. If this question had no purpose, I probably wouldn't have noticed his unease, "Ah, yes, I remember."  
  
I lean back in my chair, nursing my drink in my lap and looking into the distance, the picture of leisure, "I was jis' thinkin' on 'em lately, thinkin' how great a pirate he is. 'S a wonder I don't hear more about him, in the streets or somethin'. Have you?"  
  
The answer flies from his mouth so quickly I know it to be false, "No. Not a peep. Yer right, strange." He takes a few more gulps of the alcohol.  
  
I put my elbows on the table and put my face close to his so he can see my eyes. I smile real wide as I say, "You know, the stories you told seem so real, I wouldn't be surprised to hear you were actually there, with him. Fightin' ghost pirates an' stealin' treasure an' goin' ta' far-off places."  
  
Some of the unease coasts off of Gibbs' face, replaced by conspiratorial pride, "Well, lass, now that ya' mention it... You know, I never really tol' you everything. I left some parts out, you bein' a little thing, thought it'd be too scary for ya'. I'm sure yer father did as well."  
  
"I'm not too young to know the truth now."  
  
Gibbs blinks at that and now I know he knows my secret, but just how did he come across it? Time to test the waters, "Do you think I look like him, Gibbs?"  
  
The unease is back, full force, "Uh- who, yer father?"  
  
"No, Gibbs, do you think I look like Captain Sparrow?"  
  
Again with a too quick lie, "No, no- not at all like him, definitely not."  
  
"So you HAVE seen him," I probe, just hiding a triumphant grin. I can't show my hand too quickly, he's not ready yet.  
  
But he's close to it, "Yes, yes, girl- I have seen and I have worked wit' him before. Blast you an' yer damnable trickery, yer worsen' he is!"  
  
"Who, Will Turner?"  
  
"Ha! Will Turner couldn't trick his way out o' a town o' lackwits. Sparrow, I mean. Yer worsen' Jack, at least he was a little straightforward."  
  
My heart lurches painfully and I choke out the next question, "Was?"  
  
At this Gibbs catches himself and realizes just how much he has revealed, "How should I know, girlie?" he snaps sharply, then softens, "I'm jis' a washed up ol' sailor. He could be, could not... Ye' never really knew wit' Jack."  
  
I make my voice as pathetic as possible and damn near make MYSELF cry, "And you say I don't look a thing like him."  
  
"Aw, nah, darlin', ya' look loads like him."  
  
I can feel my eyes welling up, "Really?"  
  
"Aye, girl, spittin' image almost, but don't tell yer folks I said that." He puts a finger to his lips and winks at me.  
  
I smile, "Thanks, Gibbs. It's good ta' know the truth from you."  
  
The elderly man suddenly looks panic-stricken, "Wait a minute, I didn't tell you anything! Whatcha' talkin' about? What truth? Oh, Jack'll have my head on a platter if he finds out I spilled me guts so easily!"  
  
I'm tempted to let him go on like this, it's fairly amusing, but I feel slightly guilty for playing him like a cheap fiddle, "Calm down, Gibbs, calm down. I already knew."  
  
"What?! How? How did you find out?!" He is now staring at me like I'm a stranger, like I'm a dangerous animal.  
  
"I think my benefactors have had their fill of me."  
  
His eyes fly open at my simple and less than daughterly statement, "They told you?!"  
  
"No, Gibbs, they didn't. Look, it's not important how I found out-"  
  
"More tricks then," he grumbles, again looking at me like I may strike at any moment, "'S a wonder ye' didn't find out sooner. Well, so much fer Jack's hopes fer ya'. You know, I was worried the very first time the guv'ner took ya' on a boat. I tagged along ta' make sure you were safe, an' the look on yer face as soon as we got out o' the harbor-" his eyes turned heavenward, as if recalling a fond memory and silently pleading forgiveness all at once, "Twas like lookin' in a window to the past. I could see it in ya' as clear as daylight, as clear as I did in Jack. An' then ya' started goin' 'round as this Gawain Burns person, I knew there'd be no stoppin' ya', twas only a matter o' time 'fore ye' wanted yer own ship, crew- adventures. Twas a mistake, tellin' ye' 'bout Jack, especially the stories o' his grand deeds, I know this now."  
  
"No, Gibbs," I quickly contest, "If you and Father hadn't told me them, if I'd never come to know the truth, I'd've been miserable. Look, it's not in me ta' live the life o' the governor's granddaughter, it just isn't. I would spend all my days feeling out o' place, but not knowin' why. I'd have no purpose! But now I do, now I know where I belong, an' I'm glad fer it, you hear me? I'm glad ta' know I'm a pirate," I give a small laugh, "It actually simplifies a few things."  
  
"Aye?" Gibbs raises a bushy eyebrow inquiringly, and then squints hard at me. He says with a strange solemnity, "Now that you know I can truly see the Sparrow in you. Ye' already have a plan, dontcha'? Been listenin' ta' the local rumors, have ye'? Oh no, don't tell me ya' been listenin' ta' that crackpot barkeep, wit' his crazy mermaid's tale. That's nothin' but rubbish, ya' understand?"  
  
It's my turn to raise an eyebrow, "I'm sure that's what ye' said 'bout the curse of Cortes' gold, eh? The undead pirates, were they rubbish as well?"  
  
Gibbs looks aptly abashed, but recovers enough to say, "Well, that was different. Didn't involve entire islands sinkin' inta' Davey Jones' locker, fer one! An' no fantastical creatures, fer another!"  
  
"Who was the one who said I should have my own ship, crew, adventure?" I count them off on my hand then hold the digits out to Gibbs.  
  
The man swats them away angrily. I see I'll have to be more careful how many times I make a fool of a man, "Oh no, ya' won't fox me wit' that again. I said no such thing, Guinevere Turner. Point o' fact, if I had it MY way, ya'd forget all this business an' go home, ta' the only parents ya' know an' will ever know. Ya' think Sparrow wants anythin' ta' do with you? That's why he sent ya' ta' Will an' Elizabeth in the first place."  
  
This last statement hits me like a punch to the gut. I suddenly find myself fighting a lump in my throat, "But... he sent letters... and money. He can't want to totally wash his hands of me." I stare down at the table to avoid looking at Gibbs, but I can see his pitying expression at the top of my vision.  
  
"Ah, girl, ya' had best get used to the facts," he speaks slowly, burning every word into my brain, "Jack Sparrow was a pirate, an' a great one. An', like jis' about every other pirate that ever sailed, NOT a family man. The sooner you accept the fact that ye' pro'bly have many more half brothers an' sisters in places wit' less idea o' their origins than you, the better off ye' shall be. Jis' be happy he had the sense ta' set you up in a good home wit' kind people before he-" Gibbs stops abruptly there.  
  
"Before he what, Gibbs?" I ask harshly, spitting out his name, "Is Jack Sparrow dead?" The old seaman squirms under my scrutinizing glare, and for a moment I relish my effect on him and wonder if it only stems from our past friendship, or if I can do it to anyone, "Well, is he? Speak!"  
  
"I can't say, child! I was sworn not to!" He stops squirming and simply looks wretched in his seat.  
  
I gaze at Gibbs with shrewd eyes, "Sworn, eh? Kind of strange, I've never heard o' pirates being sworn not to tell o' their captain's deaths before. You know? I don't think he's dead at all," Gibbs flinches, and I know I've hit some nerve, "But where is the great Captain Jack Sparrow then, hm? Why, I have no idea! Do you, Gibbs?" He only stares at me plaintively, and I know I will get no more information from him- at least not today.  
  
"Fine then," I snap at him, pushing out my chair and standing. I walk towards the door, but stop as I pass Gibbs. Leaning close to him, I say, "But you won't stop me from being who I am, who I'm meant to be. If it's true, and I am Jack Sparrow's daughter, no one will." I stalk from the bar, not missing the sound of Gibbs' tired sigh as he slumps in his chair, thoroughly defeated.  
  
  
  
A/N: Okay, I've managed to hold off the tricky stuff for another chapter. Wow, I don't think I've every done a chapter that is nearly all one conversation. You'll notice these chapters seem to be getting shorter and shorter- trust me, I tried to get to ten pages, but it was so hard! And I'm plum outta creativity for one night, so you'll have to wait. Read and review please! And also, if anybody has any hints on getting italics to show up on a .doc, don't hesitate to share. 


	4. The best plan yet

A/N: You know, I am really enjoying writing this fic. It's like a fic I'm reading, and I can't wait for the next update. But, of course, the only way for it to be updated is for me to write it, hence all the updates my few but lovely readers are enjoying. A big, appreciative hug for Gambit Gurl Isis, it was so sweet of you to review every chapter like that, and evanescence kiks (sorry about that) ass.  
  
To reply to all your comments:  
  
For Isis: I'm really flattered you can relate the gang to characters as famous as J.K.R's, actually. Though to tell the truth, I had no intention of having an Arthurian naming scheme, I chose the name Guinevere completely at random and Gawain just happens to sound a bit like it. It's kind of you to feel I should get more reviews, but beggars can't be choosers, right? I know, I know, I'm a review whore. About the Gibbs conversation; thanks, I tried. I probably shouldn't say much about whether or not Jack and Guinevere meet at all, don't you think? But I'll keep your suggestion in mind. And finally, thank you very much for the italics advice and for putting me on your favorites list, you're a wonderful person.  
  
For evanescence: glad you're enjoying it and I'm terribly sorry for your loss, of summer vacation that is. Sorry again, but I think I'll keep Jack's whereabouts, or lack there of, to myself for the time being. Remember, a magician never reveals her tricks.  
  
You see, people? You give detailed, ultra-kind reviews like that, I take notice. Also, let it be said that these reviews played no small part in the act of getting me on my word processor and whipping out another chapter for yall. Okay, that said, enjoy chapter four!  
  
  
  
I'm still stalking when Pete joins me. Finally glancing around at my surroundings, of which I'd taken little notice in my stony rage, I discover I've made it all the way to the docks and the sun is an orange ball low on the horizon.  
  
"Been wonderin' 'bout you, boss," Pete is saying, but I'm not paying much attention, "Seem kinda out o' sorts lately. You workin' on a new plan?"  
  
This question sends the wheels of my mind spinning once more. Do I have a new plan? I can in a heartbeat, just to spite Gibbs. He doesn't think I can be a pirate, well I'll show him, "Aye, Pete," I say with a more devilish grin than ever before, "The best plan yet." With that I jog away to let him wonder. I spend the rest of the day tooling around the harbor, watching the ships come and go, and plotting my little black heart out.  
  
  
  
And not a moment too soon it seems, for Mother and Father choose this particular evening when I emerge from my sanctuary to reveal their new plan. They stand a united front before me in the hall, and the grin I've been cultivating promptly slides away.  
  
"Could you join us in the parlor, Guinevere?" Mother oh so politely requests.  
  
"We must talk with you," Father adds, concern riddling his strong countenance.  
  
I regard them as one might regard the two deadly snakes that have one cornered, "Very well." I walk with them flanking me and can't help feeling as though our journey will end at the gallows, not the parlor.  
  
My parents guide me to a seat on the lounge in the parlor; my mother sits in one of the small chairs scattered about the room as my father sits next to me and takes my hand. I look into his eyes briefly and find a deep sadness. I can guess his thoughts; Elizabeth is right, Look at her, It's time she left, She's not our daughter. I turn away when the lump from my conversation with Gibbs returns and stare into my lap. I flinch in surprise when I see Mother's hand awkwardly pat my knee.  
  
"You know how much we care about you, Guinevere, don't you?" I nod instinctively, "And you know we only want the best for you?" Again I nod, "That's good because your father and I have come to a decision that perhaps living here isn't the best for you, that maybe it is time to try something else."  
  
I look up at her then and try to act surprised, "What do you mean?"  
  
"We mean that maybe you should try living in a different environment, away from Port Royal. We think you may be you would be happier there-"  
  
"Where? Where would we dump me?" Even knowing that this was coming, I can't help the anger boiling up inside. The irrational thoughts bubble on the surface of that anger. How dare they do this to me! They're supposed to take care of me! Isn't that what Jack wants? Luckily none of these accusations spill out. But who is she kidding, saying we like I know all about this, though the irony didn't escape me that this is the first time that is true. I do know, if not all, at least I had a vague idea until this very evening.  
  
Mother continues undeterred, "There is a boarding school back in England run by an old friend of mine. Now, I've spoken with her and she said she'd be happy to have you, if you're willing."  
  
This hits me like a blow, and I murmur, "England? But- but the Caribbean is my home." I can feel the tears coming, and my lip quivers despite myself.  
  
Father squeezes my hand, "We know, sweetheart, but we're sure you'll love it there! There's plenty to do, people to meet, you'll be so happy." He smiles brightly, as if that makes it all okay. William Turner, brave, strong, but oh so stupid at very inopportune times.  
  
"And how would you know?" I lash out at him, "You've never been to England- you were born here, just like me!"  
  
He quails and Mother quickly comes to his rescue, "But I have, Guinevere, and I agree with your Father." I snort in derision but she barrels on, not leaving me room for sarcastic comments, "Now, you can either fight this, making it harder for all of us, or you can see what we're trying to do for you and accept it. It is your choice." She sits back, satisfied with her delivery.  
  
I gaze at her, then Father a moment, "I have to think about it."  
  
"By all means, love," Father says, his eyes like that of a dog that's been hit too many times, "But we need a decision by tomorrow, your ship is scheduled to leave the day after."  
  
I almost laugh before turning to Mother, "That's a little presumptuous, you make the travel plans?" She doesn't respond to my barb, just watches me, "Fine, you're no fun." I leave without saying good night.  
  
  
  
I slump behind the door of my sanctuary for little more reason than it seems fitting. I've had an eventful day, don't I deserve a good slump? But it doesn't last long as my energy levels tower and I burst into action. I love when a decision is finally made, especially a really big one, things seem to roll into place and everything becomes clear. My short- and long- term goals lay before me like stones across a river, I merely have to accomplish one after the other to reach my final destination. But my path is transient, I have to move now or risk the consequences of it disappearing and leaving me stranded.  
  
This has to be the most cliché thing I've ever done, I think as I stand at the foot of my benefactors' bed and say goodbye, "Goodbye, William, Elizabeth," I say with a steady voice, "You did your best with me, and I appreciate it, but things don't work out the way we hope sometimes. You probably won't see me again, but I'll try to write if I'm able. Wish me luck," I add after running out of things to say. I leave a letter on my bed, addressed to the Turners, to the same effect. I figure why make them worry all the more, they have the right to at least know their charge wasn't kidnapped or anything. I slip out of my sanctuary through the trusty window for the last time, feeling better about the whole thing.  
  
  
  
"Hey, Pete, wanna know my great plan?"  
  
"Yeah, 's been buggin' me all day!"  
  
"Well, put some stuff together an' come on out here."  
  
"You got it, boss!"  
  
The twins and I wait in the moonlight outside Peter's house. The only sounds to be heard emanate from the King's Compass a few houses down.  
  
"Do ya' think sound travels farther at night?" I wonder aloud, gazing up into the inky sky at the cool moon.  
  
"Dunno," Tom replies automatically. My boys have long since gotten used to my odd, mostly unanswerable questions, and their replies rarely differ from some variation of "I don't know."  
  
Pete stumbles from his house as he pulls on a shoe while immediately asking, "What's the plan, Gawain?"  
  
"We're gonna be pirates, Pete!" Tuck cries in his excitement. Tom is the older, and inherently more mature, twin, while Tuck shares in Peter's naïve excitement in all things.  
  
"Ya' mean we're gonna leave home?" Pete turns to me as he says this.  
  
His expression is inscrutable in the dark, so I can't help but answer honestly, "Yeah, Pete, we're leavin'." I feel a flash of panic, was Peter going to back out? It took about three seconds for the twins to be out of the door and by my side, bags in hand, when I knocked on their door.  
  
"What's a' matter, Petey-boy?" Tuck nudges his mate in the ribs, "Worried ya'll get seasick?"  
  
Peter faces Tuck, and the light from a candle in a window half- illuminates his determined face, "No, I ain't. Let's go."  
  
As we walk to the docks, my doubts rear their ugly heads. It occurs to me that I could be taking my boys to their deaths. You never know what could happen at sea, there are all kinds of dangers. Can I live with that? They don't even know the real me, they know Gawain and they trust Gawain when Gawain's nothing but a shadow. Will they trust Guinevere, if I tell them? Pete possibly will, but the twins are a different story. There's no telling with them. Well, I think as I see our destination come into view, only one way to find out. I swallow my nerves as The Spartan looms over us and we step onto the docks. I don't know what the name means, but it caught my eye earlier during my whirlwind of plotting. I casually inquired if they were in need of any extra strong, healthy, young hands aboard and was quite pleased with the answer. Men wait on the dock as another man checks their names and they go aboard. My gang and I take our place at the end of the line and I feel a hint of Tuck and Pete's excitement chase a rabbit down my spine as we come down the line, but I keep myself contained. Man after man the line dwindles, closer and closer we come. I realize this is my only chance to come clean with the boys.  
  
"Fellas?" I ask, my voice perfectly even, almost conversational.  
  
"Next!" Another man heads up the gangway.  
  
"Aye, boss?" Pete answers first.  
  
"Next!" One more man is checked.  
  
"Ye' should know, me name's not Gawain." I keep my eyes trained on the man we approach, not daring to see my gang's reaction.  
  
"Well," Tuck says slowly, "What is it then?"  
  
"Next!" The last man in front of me gets checked off.  
  
I finally turn to them and say as quickly as I can, "It's Guinevere."  
  
"Next!" calls the man, and I stand before him as tall as possible. He's a fairly small man with a thick beard and handkerchief over his head, "Gawain Burns?"  
  
"Aye."  
  
He makes a small mark in the log book before him, "Get onboard."  
  
I walk up the gangway, away from the docks, over the moonlit water, and onto The Spartan. I feel a strange weight suddenly dissolve the moment my feet land on the deck and I allow myself a smirk. I don't look back to see if my gang is behind me, I know they are, and that only widens my smirk. They followed me, the real me, Guinevere, and now we're headed for Tortuga. Delightful.  
  
  
  
A/N: Yes! Done with at least some of the tricky part! Good for me, and good for you all as well. No promises as to when my next inspiration will be, but I'm still enjoying this story, so it can't be long. Review please! 


	5. Aye, sir

A/N: Hi, sorry for the delay. All I have to say in my defense is school and work. I don't think further explanation is required. What can I say, besides thanks for all the great reviews, I'll answer all your questions at the end of the chapter, though I think I should address a recurring theme or two I noticed in said reviews. On the subject of Will's botched past, oops! Moving on, as far as confusion in the last chapter goes, I do feel I could've done better with it, but I don't feel like rewriting it, so you're gonna have to live with it. I hope this chapter will quell some of that confusion. Enjoy the long-coming chapter five!  
  
  
  
Time passes quickly on the sea, I muse as I gaze out on the warm, sparkling waters of the Caribbean. The sun just touches those blue depths off the starboard bow. I put my chin in my folded arms on the lacquered wood of the port bow as my hair is whipped around in the breeze. The darkening sky makes me think of Moth- Elizabeth's jewelry, and I try to quell the memories as they invade my brain. Moments like this have been blessedly few on The Spartan thanks to the seemingly endless amount of chores Captain Croft sets for me to do. Thinking on the good captain is much easier than thinking on my past, so I do that a while.  
  
I believe Croft would fit Will's description of a good man, shockingly enough. As honest as possible in his business, tough when circumstances deem it, decisive without recklessness, a good man. I'm proud to be on his crew, even as a lowly cabin boy only fit to do menial labor. I decided early in the voyage that if I am to be a successful pirate, he wouldn't be a bad role model, after Jack. So I become a fly on the wall around him, learning his habits, how he deals with problems and handles his crew. May have earned myself a tongue lashing or two with my hovering, but the gain is more than worth the pain... No pain, no gain- ha, I like that.  
  
The habits of a captain aren't nearly all I've been learning. I was quick to notice that The Spartan differed greatly from the ships the governor took me on as a child. Consequently, I discovered that I knew little more than jack shit about sailing. So after watching me stumbling through my first few chores, some of the more experienced crewmates took pity on a scrawny lad and imparted a little of their wisdom to me. Perhaps taking a more than a little advantage of my fellow shipmates, I mine them for more information on all manner of things, navigating advice, medical instruction, fighting tips; just about anything they're willing to teach me. I also ask as casually as possible after my two main goals for abandoning life as I know it in the first place, Jack and the mermaid's ransom. The results of such inquiry on either subject have not been encouraging, but hope springs eternal, as they say.  
  
A harsh cry behind my left shoulder heralds the arrival of an enormous gray bird, and I watch it fly past The Spartan, flapping its great wings. An albatross, my mind informs me and I shudder. Of my memories of the governor's ship, one stands out in particular. The day I spotted a bird nearly identical to this one and ran to Governor Swann, brimming with questions. He was stoic as he answered them, his gaze following the impressive creature. He told me they were believed to be the souls of dead seamen. This eve, I send a brief prayer up to Heaven that this tremendous animal is not the soul of one particular seaman.  
  
"Gawain!" Croft's booming voice jerks me from my dark thoughts.  
  
I dutifully stand and face his tall, solid form as it climbs the steps onto the bow, "Aye, sir."  
  
"I'm puttin' ye on grub duty in the galley, maybe it'll keep ye outta me quarters fer ten minutes."  
  
"Aye, sir." I know now that lip does not earn praise when it comes to the captain, I've got the bruises to prove it.  
  
I make my way to the galley, hopping nimbly over ropes and gear and crewmates, and wince at the blast of heat upon opening the door. Pete glances up at me from the gruel he's poking at in the communal cooking cauldron. Under normal circumstances I'd be thrilled that Peter would be suffering by my side, however Pete's knowledge of my true identity definitely doesn't fall under that heading. He and the twins followed me onto The Spartan, alright, but not because they trust me. I don't know how I'll earn that trust back, but so far they haven't spilled my little secret to anyone else, so that's a start. Right?  
  
"Evenin', Petey," I say in a garish mockery of our former familiarity. He grunts in return and I smile brightly. Ah, progress. Just yesterday I barely garnered a stony glance from my dear friend. Together we dish out supper, but my attempts at conversation appear to be lost in the mail, for all the response I receive.  
  
  
  
"Land ho!" I briefly allow my eyes to slide shut as I relish the phrase.  
  
A crewmate catches me in my moment of stillness, "Gawain! Quit yer lolly-gaggin' an' get ta' work! Ship ain't gonna dock herself." This phrase brings to mind one of Will's stories of Jack, and I loose the laziest smirk in recorded history on the man. The results are immediate. "I'll knock that look right off yer face, boy!" he shouts at my retreating back as I begin my docking duties.  
  
Stepping into Tortuga, I quickly decide, is akin to stepping into a tub of gravy in that I instantly desire a good, long bath; preferably back on board the Spartan. Tortuga also appears to be the choice breeding ground for pirates, in more ways than one. Every sagging, gray hovel is either a brothel or bar it seems, and I find myself grateful we arrived in the daytime. I fear quite tangibly for my safety as I never have in Port Royal. At this realization I grin, I could get used to this town.  
  
"First time in Tortuga's a thing ta' remember," remarks a voice beside me. I turn to see Captain Croft, a pipe in his dagger-slash of a mouth, staring into the depths of the town.  
  
I gaze at him a moment before again filling my vision with Tortuga, "Aye, sir."  
  
"I have a feelin' ye' won't be returnin' to the ship."  
  
"Aye, sir."  
  
"Take care, then, lad. Don't start any fights ye' can't finish."  
  
"Aye, sir." I left Captain Croft there, and marched at a steady clip into the city my father knew so well.  
  
  
  
It's a funny thing, having two goals you want with equal fervor to reach. You can't decide to be happy or mad to close more distance on one than the other. That is the way of things as I trundle through the rotten oyster that is Tortuga on my sea legs, pumping whoever is conscious for any information regarding the whereabouts of Captain Jack Sparrow or the enchanted island containing the mermaid's ransom. Regarding the latter, I find little more than tales among Tortuga's denizens, though that's more than can be said for the former. I swear, I was closer to finding Jack when I thought him no more than a fictional character of my bedtime. There isn't the whisper of his name upon the foul air, as if he never existed at all. The albatross circles my thoughts like a carrion bird, though that may be just the blue parrot that seems to have been over my shoulder all day.  
  
I stare dejectedly into the warm amber of my drink at a bar, can't recall its name. Night has long since fallen and I forget to be afraid of the town I so recently criss-crossed. I wonder idly where Peter and the twins are, and why I'm not so torn up about their rejection of me. Knowing getting sloshed wouldn't help the situation, I drop a coin on the table and make for the exit, my thoughts now revolving around finding a bed unoccupied by a prostitute. Though this predicament doesn't distract me from the pair of shadowy figures matching me step for step a distance behind me. I try to lose them, going down pitch-dark alleys and maneuvering through barrels of dubious origin, but they seem to serve a purpose too great to go half-assed about.  
  
My depression is changing again, boiling, melting, transforming into a hot anger. Who do these fools think they are, harassing me?! I'll fix them. Entering an alley marginally wider than most, I turn slowly to face them. In the shadows the most I can glean from their appearance is at least one undoubtedly masculine build and the stone-like stance of both as they stand silent before me. I'm taken by surprise when the smaller of the two comes at me quick as lightning and I find myself pressed hard up against the wall, hands grasping ineffectively at the dark and rough one wrapped around my neck.  
  
"Yer lookin' fer Jack Sparrow?" a hiss emerges from the blackness under a large hat. At this I stop planning an escape that would impair this person's speech. The wheels of my mind turn in a new direction instead. The hand loosens on my neck marginally so I can answer.  
  
"Why yes," I respond with a brashness that shocks even me, "You folk haven't heard tell o' him o' late, have ya'? I been havin' a devil of a time all day-" The hand tightens again, soundly stopping my inquiry.  
  
"You listen here right good, boy-o," the darkness orders and gives my body a light throttle, just to make sure it had my attention, "You best quit askin' after Sparrow if ye' know what's good for ye'."  
  
"Why?" I bite out between gasps of air.  
  
"Because it's none o' yer damn business, that's why!" is the response, accompanied by a more forceful throttle which sets my head spinning and my eyes clouding over.  
  
The clouds clear, but my brashness remains fully intact. Maybe I shouldn't be a pirate; have you noticed just how stupendous my survival instinct is yet? "So I take it Captain Sparrow lives then, eh?"  
  
No words come from beneath the hat, only a growl of rage fit for a wild cat, and then the flash of a freshly-sharpened knife that apparently came from the humid air. Its silvery blade reflects the moonlight briefly under the hat, and an epiphany flashes through my sudden adrenaline rush as I register the feminine features twisted in fury in the darkness. Adrenaline reclaims the throne of my mind quickly though as the female assailant's knife makes its acquaintance with the skin over my windpipe.  
  
"Hey!" a voice suddenly cries out from the mouth of the alley. I turn my attention away from the knife whose blade is steaming up under my breath and look out of the corner of my eye toward the voice. I can only guess the new dark shape I see is its owner. I try not to roll my eyes as I watch said owner stumble into the alley, so obviously drunk I can feel it in my bones.  
  
"You- you," the young man as it happens stutters and slurs, "You leave that boy alone, ya' hear?" He points a finger a foot to the right of my attacker. Then the second of the pair of my assailants, a rather old man it is revealed, emerges from the darkness and tries to take hold of the drunken hero. However the boy's reflexes must still be pretty good, if the sound punch lay on the attacker's cheek is anything to go by. The old man exchanges a look with my mystery would-be murderer and begins to walk in the opposite direction with a hand pressed to his bruised face.  
  
"This changes nothing," the woman murmurs to me, "Leave off askin' o' Sparrow, wonder lad here won't be around ta' save ya' all the time." In a heartbeat it is just wonder lad and me, rubbing at my throat, in the alley.  
  
Even if he won't remember my gratitude, I stick out my hand to the young man, "Well, thanks fer the helpin' hand, sir, glad ya' came by."  
  
The hero peers at closely at my out-raised appendage momentarily, then goes to take it, misses, tries again, misses, then at last grabs the right image and pumps it as he grins up at me triumphantly. I grin back, at least until my hero slumps forward and lands at my feet, profoundly unconscious. Now, if that's not the perfect way to end your first night in Tortuga, what is?  
  
  
  
A/N: And now, the moment you've all been waiting for, responses to reviews!!!  
  
Roxanne Harvard: That had to have been the most well-rounded review I've ever received, and I'm grateful for it. Well, what can I say? I'm glad you liked the parts you liked, and I'm sorry you didn't like the parts you didn't like. I'll try in the future to increase the former and decrease the latter. Or is it the other way around? To my defense about OOC-ness, however, you may recognize that I was working with subject matter to which the movie didn't really give many hints as to how the characters may react, so you can see how I had to wing it for the most part. I tend to see Will as a doting father in response to Elizabeth's harsher parenting style, if you disagree, that's entirely your choice.  
  
evanescence kiks ass: I hope this chapter has cleared you up on the gang's reactions. Again, I don't really like the last chapter any more than you do, but there you go. As for the Turner's reactions to Guinevere's departure, don't hold your breath is all I can say. Remember this is first person, can't exactly go skipping around characters. Again, I'll be keeping everyone's favorite Captain's whereabouts or lack there of a secret for now. I hate to do this to you, but deal, okay? Hang in there, he's coming! Or maybe he's not...  
  
Gambit Gurl Isis: Another reviewer I hope I've gotten straightened out with this chapter, though I certainly hope they don't find out she's a girl too. About the ship/land thing, well- God bless happy accidents. Keep reading, fellow review whore!  
  
lotrfan1: Wow, glad you're enjoying the story so much! Favorite authors, me? Well, you're just sweeter than pie! Keep reading, I've got some great things in store for little Miss Gawain.  
  
Raquel Greenleaf: Like I said about Will's past, oops! Hope you can look past discrepancies like that and see this story for the genius it really is... Or, you know, just excuse my idiocy and keep reading.  
  
Grinning Contrivance: Thanks for the compliments, I actually was a little nervous about my slang. Though it just seems to come out on its own while I'm typing, if that makes sense. Keep reading!  
  
Laughing Sparrow: You know, I haven't quite decided where Gibbs will fit in for the future chapters, but if it means that much to you, I'll try to make it soon, okay? Hope you're enjoying reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it!  
  
Padme87: Glad you're enjoying, sorry for the late update! 


	6. Our ship awaits

A/N: Yo, folks, 'bout time for an update, dontcha' think? I think so. So let's get to it then, huh? Enjoy!  
  
  
  
"Hey," I say as I ineffectually nudge with a toe at my knight in rum- soaked armor, "Wake up, mate." A muffled moan is emitted from the prone pile of flesh on the ground, but little else. Peering down at the boy, I can see that not only has he gotten himself dead drunk, he also certainly isn't a Tortuga native. His overall cleanliness alone testifies to the fact. Hands on my hips, I tilt my head back and take in the night sky with a sigh. What am I to do with him, eh? I ask the Almighty. I catch the slightest twinkle of a star, and feel insulted. So He wants to play games with me, eh? I nudge a little less gently at my hero, "Get up, ye' soggy sack of guts!"  
  
"Oi, boss," a not so new voice calls from the end of the alley, "Needin' any help down there?"  
  
I try to look as composed as possible standing near the unconscious boy as Pete, Tom, and Tuck walk towards me. "I might. He's a mite heavy for a-"  
  
"Girl," Tom finishes, his face blank. I nod, keeping my own face nearly as expressive as the dirt we stand on. The exchange is as loaded as if we'd shouted at each other in any case.  
  
That's about how the rest of the evening goes as proper arrangements are made for us four and our guest at an inn called McCain's House. My boys make no attempt to disclose the reason for their change of heart, and I'll be hanged before I look the gift horse in the mouth, so I don't ask. But there is an inescapable tension as the evening draws to a close, and me and the boys retire. One room is all we can afford with our combined pay, and I can't ignore the nervous glances shooting like letters of the mind between them. Moment of truth comes, the arrangements are thusly: wonder lad in the single bed, and the rest of us scattered across the floor, my person given a rather wide berth. I try not to let it bother me as I attempt to trap that elusive creature, sleep, but I know things will never be the same for Gawain and his gang, and the thought fills me with pain.  
  
  
  
Morning in Tortuga is unsurprisingly like a hangover. It's gray and muggy, the light pierces between disorienting puffs of fog. Even if you didn't drink the previous night, you feel just as ill and irritable as if you had, and then some. The streets are blessedly quiet though, all the bar fights concluded and drunks happily out cold wherever they fell and couldn't get back up. Whores have closed shop as the few decent businesses open. To even think of Tortuga containing an apothecary grants me a wry smile as I walk past. I woke early with no set goals beyond the same two apparently impossible ones. I'm in a funny mood as I cruise the alleys of Tortuga. There are no roads in Tortuga, only alleys, I've noticed this.  
  
I glance around me momentarily, just to be sure that parrot has backed off. I see no flash of unnaturally bright color, as well as no silent old man or dark-skinned female with the quick-draw blade. I suppose I should count these as pluses, although I can see nothing positive about the loss of my first hot lead on Jack's whereabouts. Or lack there of, I add, but then rethink. My mind is a turmoil with these latest happenings. Thanks to my nocturnal assailants, I can reasonably conjecture that Captain Sparrow is alive. But then what? What can I do about it? I must admit that a tiny part of me hoped he was dead, if for no other reason than I wouldn't have to deal with this part of the plan, I could go back home to Will and Elizabeth and try to be the daughter they want. It was a very small part indeed.  
  
"Ho there, lad," a man greets me from a shop as I approach. He is a tall man, or at least would be if he wasn't quite so hunched over. Graying dark hair is slicked away from a pale face with a large nose and keen eyes. He appears to be a merchant. "Your the one looking for Jack Sparrow, aren't you?"  
  
It is too early in the morning for brashness, surprisingly enough I have learned a thing or two from last night's encounter with connections to Jack, so I reply with caution, "I might be. Who're you, then?"  
  
The merchant smiles politely and says, "Waylan Faulkner, my boy. Run a small shipping company here in Tortuga. I believe I may be able to help you in your quest." He gestures inside his shop, "If you'll step inside, we can discuss plans together."  
  
I can't help a pleased smile as I walk in with Faulkner. As the sky is replaced with ceiling I shoot a grin to Heaven. 'Bout time He started pulling his weight.  
  
  
  
I come down the hall to the room with a definite swagger in my step. My mood only elevates as I hear my boys laughter inside.  
  
"Gawain!" cries Peter and I swell with joy to see that boyish beam of his once again directed at me.  
  
"Aye, lads, I've returned. And, what ho! Our sleeping beauty has awakened as well, I see." The young man who deprived us four of a soft bed for the night is indeed among the living once again, more or less. He smiles along with the boys, but winces with every loud laugh they issue. "And shall ye' tell us the name o' my rescuer, then?"  
  
He blinks, and I can see he has no idea the label "rescuer" ever applied to him, but he answers the question regardless with only a little deliberation, "Mayflower Stanton."  
  
"Stanton," I say quickly over my gang's sniggers, "Ah, a fine name, that. Stanton. Well, boys, has Stanton had any breakfast this fine morn?" Stanton visibly pales at the mention of food, and I feel a sin coming on.  
  
"Uh no, boss," Pete replies, his eyes picking up a wicked gleam of their own, "I don't believe our new mate Stanton HAS had a bite ta' eat."  
  
"Well, we shall have ta' remedy that immediately," I say. The young man's panicked gaze flits from Pete, but still he says nothing.  
  
"Oh yes," Tuck chimes in, "They have a lovely breakfast here, believe it o' not. Mountains o' eggs an' bacon-"  
  
"An' biscuits, with butter," Tom continues.  
  
"Aye," Tuck picks up. Stanton seems on the verge of tears as he watches the twins in horror, "with gravy ye' can dump all over the whole mess!" Finally Stanton pitches over and the twins smartly hold a brass chamber pot between them to catch the contents of the young man.  
  
We're still laughing by the time Stanton has leaned back in the bed, now more resembling a skeleton than a man. It's not 'til I'm wiping the tears from my eyes that I remember my good news. "Boys, while you've been carousin' with our new mate Stanton, I been out fixin' it so's we got somewhere ta' go besides another ship."  
  
Tom grins at me, "A new plan already, Gawain? By my life, ye' never stop do ye'?"  
  
"Not if I can help it, boy-o."  
  
"So what is it, Gawain? Huh?" Peter asks excitedly. Lord, how I missed this!  
  
"Well, I talked ta' this bloke, Faulkner, see? An' we got an accord that he'll take us ta' find the greatest pirate that ever lived!" I let that sink into my boys' impressionable minds before continuing, "An' after that, well, let's just say I got somethin' in store fer us. Somethin' greater than all me plans combined. Whaddya' say, lads, ya' in?"  
  
"Aye, boss!" cries Peter immediately as his imagination runs wild with what I could mean by something greater than anything else.  
  
"We're with ya', Gawain," Tuck says, and Tom nods.  
  
I nod back at them, basking in the glow of their collected loyalty momentarily. Then I turn to Stanton. "How 'bout you then, mate? Ye' got any pressin' business back home? Or do ya' feel like doin' somethin' with yer life?"  
  
I can see thoughts duke it out behind the young man's solemn face before he speaks. "Yes, I'll go with you."  
  
I grin at my newest boy, "Good. Well, then, if there's no objections come along, lads! Our ship awaits!"  
  
  
  
A/N: Hope you all enjoyed this chapter. The next will be... hm- let's say it'll be rather compelling. Stay tuned! To my reviewers:  
  
Fire Pixie: Hey, long time no see! Thought you'd grown out of me, huh? Well they all come crawling back eventually, muhahaha! Ahem. Anyways, overjoyed you like it, and trust me, I won't be abandoning this one anytime soon. Although I don't think I wrote anything for "Order of the Phoenix", you may be thinking of some other writer. Speaking of which, were you talking about chapter 2 or 3 that you liked being dialogue? You see, these details are important for my vast ego to be maintained. Keep reading, glad to have you back on my review list!  
  
l88er-az: That's some kinda pen name ya' got there, hon. Anyways, glad you like so far, though, as I tell everyone else, I'll have to keep info on Sparrow and any other cryptic characters to myself for now. Remember, a true magician never reveals her secrets!  
  
PED-sarah: Sweetheart, if I ever tried to plan out my stories, I don't think any human being on the planet could understand it, including myself. Though I do have vague notions about how I want the story to go, some things much more tangible than others. When I write, it's akin to that part in X-Men the movie when Magneto is walking in the air and the bits of metal fly up to make a walkway for him. The solid parts are there, but only when I need them. I believe I've already answered your question on Pete and the twins ^^.  
  
Nightfox the Gypsy: Hope this fix was to your liking. Keep reading, if all goes according to plan the next chapter should be the perfect hit for you. 


	7. It's in the blood

A/N: My, my, my, how the time does fly, huh? I'm tellin' ya', this fic is going by much faster than I thought it would. Although I'm not entirely surprised, my longest fics are only 14 chapters, so in all fairness I'm actually a little behind schedule. But I digress... I promised a compelling chapter, didn't I? Well, that was a fool thing to do, but a promise is a promise...  
  
  
  
Faulkner's anxious bid for my opinion of his vessel of choice for our voyage drifts into my ears. I answer with confidence, "Nice ship ta' be sure, Waylan." No need for him to know that since yesterday I'd never been on a ship for longer than a day or two.  
  
Faulkner smiles in relief, though I'm not sure just what made him so hot for my seal of approval, "Good, Gawain, that's very good. We'll just climb aboard and set off then, eh?"  
  
My guide to Jack scurries up the gangway, and I follow, wondering briefly exactly how I got tangled up with this man. At our first meeting I pegged him for a slick merchant that'd charm the blood right out of the proverbial turnip, but now he's a dead give-away for a sniveling lackey who is missing a boss to kick him around. I simply can't get a good bead on him.  
  
I didn't lie to his eager face, however. The ship is quite nice, at least as far as I can tell, which is a depressing stone's throw from any normal governor's granddaughter. It's rather small, built only for quick trips and manned only by small crews. This makes me hopeful, if Faulkner didn't see fit to make use of his larger ships it means Jack can't be terribly far away. All thoughts of mermaids' ransoms wither underneath the great hope of at last finding Jack. I take a breath of sea air and, with my personal sails billowing with energy, set about helping my gang and a few of Faulkner's men he brought along load the small ship.  
  
"Is this how they'll store cargo 'til the end of time, do ya' think?" I inquire more to the bright blue sky above than to either Tom or Pete, who, like me, are carrying the ubiquitous wooden boxes of miscellaneous ship-stuff into the hold.  
  
"Dunno, Guinn," Tom replies in the usual deadpan manner. But I can see in his small, private smile he's glad to have my unanswerable questions to not answer once again. He's taken to calling me Guinn, I assume to teach me a hint of a lesson for my dishonesty. Tom's been the hardest to win back over after my little transgression. To tell the truth, I almost prefer it over Gawain. It sounds more like Guinevere, without the hassle of femininity hanging over it.  
  
At last we are ready to depart, and as the men weigh anchor and drop the sails, I hear Faulkner calling to me from the helm. Tearing my gaze from the departing shore of Tortuga, I jog to the stern to join him.  
  
"Care to take us out of the harbor, lad?" Faulkner asks me. His eyes glint with the friendly challenge.  
  
"Don't mind if I do, sir," I respond with my own glint and take the wheel. A great swell rises in my chest that I almost think my ribs would crack down the middle, but somehow I'm ridiculously happy about it. I see the horizon before me, free of any landmasses to interrupt its clean line from one corner of my eye to the other. The sun is high in the cloudless sky, setting a sparkle on the water just outside the harbor. The knowledge that Jack is out there, in that endless blue, completes the moment as I guide the ship without a thought to my lack of experience. It's not until I see the sun dipping into the top of my vision that I realize I've been at the helm for much longer than it takes to depart from Tortuga's harbor. I look around the ship, blinking away the ecstasy of the helm and horizon, and find Faulkner leaning against the right rail next to me. He is gazing at me thoughtfully, an arm wrapped around his waist and the other braced on it at the elbow, his hand worrying his chin.  
  
"You've certainly got the knack for piloting a ship, my boy," he remarked, with a satisfied smile on his face.  
  
"It's in the blood," I retort before I realize what I've said. I hope he doesn't pick up on it, but I can see it's a lost cause.  
  
"You don't say?" he asks. Curiosity in every move, he stands upright and awaits my response with keenly interested eyes.  
  
"Me father was a merchant, used ta' take me out in his ships from time to time." The lie slides from my mouth like a dolphin through water, and I'm glad for it as I see Faulkner's interest dull. I'm not sure why I feel it would be a mistake to let this man in on my secret. I suppose it stands to reason that if you go around telling everyone a secret it won't be a secret for very long, but I haven't told anyone yet and something in me is screaming that he should not be the first. Faulkner asks no more questions, and takes the helm himself. With a bright and, more importantly, innocent smile, I trot down to where the rest the crew and my gang relax; their work being done for the day.  
  
"Ah, an' he awakes from the enchantment to return to his mates," Tom jibs me from his seat with his back against a barrel.  
  
Tuck grins up at me from the flute he brought along and was playing quietly, "Come up fer air, did ya', boss?"  
  
I fix the twins with a smug look, "You best not be complainin' 'bout my skillful hand at the helm." I plop down between Stanton and Peter, who grants me a sweet smile before returning to the length of rope he is braiding in his lap.  
  
Tom chuckles, leaning his head against the barrel's rough wood, "Let it never be said that you let truth get in the way of glory, Guinn." We carry on like this, only speaking occasionally and mostly listening to Tuck's flute, until the sky is dark and sleep beckons.  
  
  
  
Days pass on Faulkner's ship. I am permitted to steer whenever I ask, a perk I make use of often, under Faulkner's supervision. I put up with that little hindrance, mostly because I come to enjoy the man's company, at least when he's not acting like a sniveling mutt. As always, I mine his stores of ship knowledge while gently probing for any information about the mermaid's ransom. I get no definitive answers on that topic. Perhaps Faulkner will not only be my guide to Jack, but ever-lasting wealth as well...  
  
Stepping into the small galley after another turn at the helm, I find Stanton eating alone. Ah, I think, bond-time with my new boy, I see. He jumps when I fall into a seat beside him. "Oops, scared ya', didn't I?" I say with a grin. Stanton only nods, then returns to his thoughts. Curious, I ask, "An' what deep thinkin' are you doin' then? Must be heavy stuff, yer head's near fallin' on the table with it."  
  
"It's, er, personal," he replies and shifts in his seat with discomfort.  
  
"Well now, it's obviously troublin' you," I say, "An' I hate ta' see any o' my boys sufferin'. Spill it, Mayflower, an' that's an order."  
  
Stanton glances at me in surprise, I never use his first name and I usually rebuke any of the gang for doing it as well. He decides wisely that my using it now means I want an answer, he sighs, "No secrets from you, are there?"  
  
"Never," I reply. Shame it don't go both ways, I think with a wry grin.  
  
"Well, I used to be with the British Navy, if you can believe it," he begins. I watch his face carefully as he talks, watch it turn wistful as he continues, "I did enjoy my work. A little too much, it seems. I was being awarded a medal for catching pirates one day, but something happened. Somebody pulled a prank or something, I don't know, but all the fireworks that were supposed to go off went off in all these different places. Anyways, next thing I know, I'm watching the soldiers come back, and they've got fruit splattered all over their uniforms. I'm not sure how it happened, but just looking at those uniforms, something hit me. It was like taking off a blindfold, and I didn't like what I saw. I ran off to Tortuga not long after, you know the rest." Stanton sighs heavily and his shoulders slump, "Now I'm just wondering if I did the right thing."  
  
For a while I can't say anything. My mind battles over if I should tell him his epiphany was my doing or not. The look of mental anguish on his face that I now realize has been there this entire time is so different from the bliss I saw that day, it is no wonder I didn't recognize him sooner. Completely at a loss, I can only mumble, "At least you did something about it, instead of nothing."  
  
Stanton's face wrinkles in confusion, but he smiles at me anyway, "Thanks- I think."  
  
I stand up, suddenly drained, and pat him on the shoulder before leaving, "Anytime, mate."  
  
  
  
"Gawain! Wake up, lad!" a voice screams ruthlessly close to my ear. Just to spite it for being so rude, I don't so much as change my breathing in compliance with the voice. This abruptly ends at the voice's next words, "Pirate attack!"  
  
I'm out of my ragged cot like a shot, and, once I've cleared my eyes of the massive head rush, make out the form of one of Faulkner's men. A sword is trembling in hand as he holds one out to me. I deny it and instead reach under one of the ribs of the hull for Sparrow. I barely get the buckle of the sheath done before the man has grabbed me by the arm and dragged me above decks. What I see upon arrival for a moment befuddles my still sleep-addled mind. Each deck, from bow to stern, is a flurry of activity as men prepare for the certain onslaught. I scan the horizon quickly until I come upon the approaching ship. It is much larger than ours, and the unmistakable flag of the pirates whips in the breeze on its highest mast. I can't help the excitement rising in me. True pirates, at last! I don't count the rowdy hooligans of Tortuga; even if they *were* pirates, they were off-duty pirates. You can't feel quite the same about a, say, a soldier when he's out of uniform and not trying to hang you. It just doesn't work. But now I'll finally get to see pirates in action, just like my father.  
  
"You frozen in terror up there, boy?!" another of Faulkner's men shouts at me, "Or do ye' b'lieve these nice folks'll go easy on ye' once they get here?"  
  
For probably the first time in my life, I ignore the insult and join my gang, who are readying the ships woefully few cannons. We've been five days on Faulkner's ship with quiet sailing, I wonder if there is any reason for attack now beyond simple plunder. Could it have something to do with Jack? The thought is quite literally blasted from my head as the first shot is fired from the pirate ship. A cannonball creates a transient crater in the water not six feet from our bow, and the enemy is still approaching fast on our port side.  
  
"Ready the cannons!" Faulkner cries from the helm, and the gang and I wrap up our duties just before the men shove the cannons out of the small holes in the side of the ship made for that purpose.  
  
At Faulkner's command, the cannons on the port side fire with resounding booms. As the acrid smoke of the gunpowder clears I find to my surprise that one of our shots had successfully put a hole in the pirates' hull. But it matters little, as they've come close enough at this point to board our ship. I tilt my head up with dismay as I watch a score of pirates swing onto our ship. Fighting follows, right on cue. A few more cannon shots are managed on both sides before they are abandoned in preference of hand-to-hand combat. Soon I am being thoroughly tested on my knowledge gained from the Spartan's men. I slash and jab at pirate after pirate, and berate myself for not taking the man's sword in the first place- well, at least until I kill a pirate and take his sword. But it appears to be too little too late, as it becomes abundantly clear that there are simply too many them and not enough us. We are herded into a corner of the ship by the pirates and made to drop our weapons.  
  
A new pirate swings with cat-like grace to land on our bow. My breath catches in my throat as I take in the new arrival, obviously the ship's captain. I hear a murmur run through the crew as the dark woman stands, hands on her hips, and surveys her hostages. It is the woman from Tortuga, the one who so nearly ended my search before it had even begun. Glancing at the pirate ship, my apprehension rises as I spot the bright blue parrot flapping its wings on the ship's prow. I don't bother to look surprised as the woman approaches me and looks me squarely in the face.  
  
"Take this boy," she commands with a voice like slightly rusted steel. Her eyes, just as friendly as her voice, fix on mine unblinkingly. We are still engaged in our staring contest as I am dragged away by two burly pirates. Once on the pirates' ship, I can hear conversation between the captain and Faulkner, but their words are unclear. I hide my surprise as I watch my gang be driven across the makeshift gangway as well. I don't look at them or speak once they join me. In fact, it's not until the door to the pirates' brig slams home that I say one word.  
  
"Bugger."  
  
  
  
A/N: Oh, I really don't want to end this here, but it's as good a place as any, and I've got homework to do. So I'll have to leave you hanging here. Sorry, but you all will have to wait until next chapter for- ha! Thought I was going to tell you for a minute there, didn't you? Nice try! Anyways, to reply to my lovely and wonderful reviewers:  
  
Becca: As much as my ego protests, I must say that there are TONS of better fics out there than this one. I feel it's my solemn duty as a fellow fanfic writer to drop a few choice pennames, so here we go. March Hare, Bombur Jo, Gatekeeper, CrimsonFuchsia, Tatiana3, Ookami no Shinpi. There, educate yourself!  
  
L88er-as: Moment of blankness, suuure. Bit by tantalizing bit- wow, that's exactly it! Are you psychic, or something? Because that's my exact plan, to the letter! Tantalizing, that's a great word, huh? Keep reading, and quit reading my mind! 


	8. Interesting, very interesting

A/N: Ah, good to be back in the land of the swashbucklers, ain't it? Liked that bit of action last chapter, did ya'? Well, that's only the tip of the great, heaping iceberg, so be prepared. Responses to all the lovely reviews are posted at the end, just a little incentive to get you all through this chapter. And, if I haven't mentioned it yet, stuff in *these* means italics, because despite helpful advice, any attempt otherwise has been proven futile. Anyway, enough of my yammering.  
  
  
  
Oh, this is not how I wanted things to go at all. This is my prevalent thought as the minutes tick by in the pirates' ship's damp brig. I was so close too; all I've been working towards since abandoning the only home I've ever known was nearly within my grasp. And now? Now I'm trapped in a leaky, creaky brig with only the rats and my boys for company. Needless to say, my patience is wearing thin.  
  
"I just had a thought," Pete breaks the silence at some point in our captivity.  
  
"Is it lonely?" I snap viciously at him. The silence is pieced back together. The more I sit the angrier I get until I feel like my eyes must be burning red coals in my face. I glare at the door to the brig, swearing silently that nobody better come through it without a death wish. I reconsider when that person is the dark-skinned captain and the old man from the alley, the gaudy blue parrot perched arrogantly on his shoulder.  
  
"I must say, boy," the piratess begins, "I'm impressed wid yer obvious dedication to findin' Sparrow. Not to mention quite curious about yer purpose."  
  
"I'm like a bad penny," I snarl, "I always turn up. But just let me say I got a grand purpose fer seekin' out Captain Sparrow, an' it's nothin' ta' do with you."  
  
I can see amusement in her crow-feet-adorned eyes, and my blood boils. I try to keep from shaking with rage as she stoops down to my level and gazes directly at my face. Her weathered face turns thoughtful as the silence stretches over the recommended amount before she speaks again, "You'll have ta' cut yer hair again, girl, 's gettin' a touch shaggy." I say nothing, and neither do I look back to gauge Stanton's reaction to the captain's assessment. The captain nods at the old man, who pulls out a set of keys and opens the door to the cages. "Come with me, lass," the woman says, "I b'lieve we've some words to exchange."  
  
  
  
The captain's quarters are sparse, as if she wasn't aware that things like masses of moldy maps, or trinkets from various plunders, were supposed to clutter the small area. I stand near the door; she sits easily in a convenient chair.  
  
"Let's start wid yer name, then, shall we?" she asks.  
  
"Gawain Burns," I reply with stubborn pride. Let her second guess her assumption that I'm a girl, it can only benefit me.  
  
But the captain only gives me a tired look mixed with something like nostalgia before saying, "Do ye' think I may, just possibly, know a thing or two 'bout hidin' yer true sex? I know it seems unbelievable, but I am only a pirate captain in charge o' me own ship."  
  
"No."  
  
The older woman actually chuckles at me, "'No' she says. Right. Well, maybe a few more days in the brig will bring ya' round ta' my way o' thinkin', eh?"  
  
Self-preservation leaps into action in spite of all my idiotic pride, "Do ye' know where Captain Jack Sparrow is?" I never said my self- preservation doesn't have a touch of idiocy itself.  
  
The captain scrutinizes me again, "Never forget the captain, do ya'?"  
  
"Never," the answer flies from my mouth, "The captain's the whole thing of it, ain't it? He'd be just another pirate without it. An' he's not- he's Captain Jack Sparrow."  
  
I don't even see her move until she's got my wrist in a vice-grip and is examining the inside of my forearm. I can only stand as she probes the skin with her calloused fingers. Without a word she drags me by the forearm to the small, grimy bay of windows along one wall of her quarters. Turning the appendage this way and that she cries in sudden triumph and her black eyes dart to mine. I see them filled with wonder, of all things. Swallowing, she finally says, "Guinevere?"  
  
"How do you know my name?" I respond, lost in confusion. I get no answer from the piratess, mostly because it's somewhat difficult to formulate one while fiercely hugging the person who asked the question.  
  
"I can't believe it," the captain mutters, her voice thick with emotion, "Oh, little Swallow, I simply can't believe it." She pulls back from me and once more stares at my face until she breaks into a beaming smile and pulls me to her again, "Oh, an' yer the spittin' image as well- I'll be damned!"  
  
Now, I don't have much aversion to touch, but I have to draw the line somewhere. I pull out of the captain's embrace and try to look dignified. "*Who* is little Swallow?" I ask firmly, and the captain burst into laughter.  
  
  
  
Once Anamaria, as it happens, collects herself, we both sit in chairs in her quarters, her still sporting an amused smile, me trying to figure out exactly what kind of luck I have run across. I know from Jack's letters that this woman is the one who personally delivered me to Will and Elizabeth, and the shock of that knowledge is taking its sweet time wearing off.  
  
Anamaria is staring at me like I could vanish at any second. Finally she says, "An' I had you in me brig- an' I almost *killed* ye'! Oh, Jack would'a killed *me*, he find out. An' he gonna kill *you*, he find out you left Will an' Elizabeth. Speakin' o' which, what made ye' do a daft thing like that?"  
  
I don't blink, "I wanted to find my father."  
  
Anamaria's question was only half-joking, but now her face is deadly serious, "Now, ya' know Jack did possibly the best thing he's ever done, takin' ye' to the Turners, lettin' 'em raise ye' proper-"  
  
"I was miserable there," I cut her off firmly.  
  
Anamaria regards me for a moment before saying, "Stands ta' reason, what Sparrow *would* be comfortable land-bound?" She settles back in her chair, "So, I assume ye' want me ta' take ye' to him, then, eh?"  
  
"Be grand of ya'."  
  
All kind of emotions have been flitting across Anamaria's face throughout the conversation, quite few of them I can truly decipher. The one she wears now joins the majority, "I don't know. No offense, but I doubt he'd be overjoyed ta' see ya', girl, after everything dat's happened..."  
  
"Do ye' truly think ye' can stop me?" I ask, honestly curious to hear the answer.  
  
Anamaria frowns deeply, "Could kill ya'."  
  
"Sure you could," I reply as if pacifying a child, and watch a few more unfathomable emotions glide like sharks under her surface anger.  
  
"Don't test me, Swallow," she quite literally growls, and I get a glint of the lightning-quick adversary from the alley.  
  
But for now I choose to disregard the warning, "Might I inquire as ta' why ye' keep callin' me Swallow?"  
  
"Not a question fer me ta' answer, 'm 'fraid," she says quickly.  
  
"I suppose there's only one person who *can* answer it, eh?"  
  
"Possibly."  
  
"Well, then it's simply too bad I'll never know, isn't it? 'S probably a great story, full o' my true origins an' whatnot. Certainly help me sleep better, knowin' it. Quite a shame, really..."  
  
  
  
I'm beginning to notice the subtle differences in people that can lead to one's benefit; little chinks in seemingly impenetrable armor that, when properly taken advantage of, can yield all kinds of possibilities. The piratess was cagey as a clam throughout my understated attack, but it seems a good old-fashioned guilt trip is what did Anamaria in- starting with being given free reign of the ship, along with my gang. Anamaria doesn't look at all surprised by my entourage; instead she chuckles slightly and asks exactly how long I've been a captain. I gaze at her in confusion.  
  
"You well on yer way, little Swallow. Got a crew o' yer own already." She puts a hand on my shoulder, "Jack'd be proud."  
  
I surprise even myself as my face reddens and I study the ship's deck. I never thought about my boys and me like that before, but I see she's right. We're pirates alright; we simply haven't got a boat yet. Smiling warmly at her, I join my crew as we settle in on Anamaria's ship, the Red Osprey.  
  
  
  
I try to relax on the Osprey, but I know it's no good, not when I know by heart where our path leads. I've decided if I can't unwind, I might as well get to know one of my father's closest allies. I find we have more in common than even I could have guessed, and we find plenty to talk about. Anamaria is kind enough to divulge the path our ship will take, which ends at a speck of an island no bigger than a thumbnail on the map. She reveals to me that she has been a rum runner for this part of the Caribbean since... Here she trails off, still unwilling to share exactly what ended her days as Captain Jack Sparrow's first mate.  
  
"The only piratin' I do anymore is ta' protect the island," she says, "An' Jack," she adds and I can see she instantly regrets it. I recognize her wince as the one I gave Faulkner when I nearly let go of *my* secret.  
  
I show her no more mercy than he did, "An' the great Captain Jack Sparrow would need protectin', would he?"  
  
To my surprise, Anamaria doesn't transform into a steel vault. She sighs tiredly and slumps in her seat, as if her muscles have given way. "I suppose I should give ya' fair warning," she muses quietly.  
  
"Fair warning?" I hate the quiver in my voice. How can I care so much about someone I haven't even met to nearly dissolve into tears at the slightest mention of bad news?  
  
Anamaria meets my eyes, and I see hers are filled with sorrow, "The reason Jack quit is because his luck ran out one day."  
  
Will's stories of Jack's perilous deeds run in a blur past my mind's eye. "That's some kinda luck ta' run out of," I murmur as my mind whirls with endless, horrible possibilities of what she could mean.  
  
"The worst," Anamaria solemnly agrees, "He was left blind by it, Guinevere."  
  
My gut feels like it's turned to stone. I can hardly breathe. I think of every possible scenario I dreamed up of our first meeting, my father and I. Needless to say, none of them include the fact that he won't be able to see my face.  
  
Anamaria puts a hand on my limp one lying on the table we sit at and continues, "He told us all, his crew of the Black Pearl, that we were ta' go ashore an' make our own lives. He swore us all ta' secrecy, we were not ta' breathe a word o' him or his whereabouts, an' we were ta' make certain no one else did. It took a while, but I managed to convince him ta' live at one o' the checkpoints in me new rum runnin' route. Wid every shipment I deliver any news, do my business- just make sure he's as comfortable as possible. Hasn't been easy, I been wonderin' how he may react ta' yer arrival."  
  
"How long do we have 'til we get there?"  
  
"Not long, Swallow. Fair warning, like I said. I don't want you goin' to him unprepared." Anamaria stands up, "I'll let ya' think on it, see if ya' change yer mind."  
  
Just like that, I'm left to my own thoughts. It's a long while before I leave that table.  
  
  
  
Morning dawns sweet and clear and the Red Osprey weighs anchor in a charming lagoon on the coast of Jack's island. I stand at the rail, gazing in mute fear at my tropical surroundings. I'm tempted to wake my crew, or at least Pete, for moral support, but I don't. No, if there is anything I have to do alone in my life, this is it.  
  
"Ye' don't have to go, Guinevere. Ya' know that," I hear Anamaria's Caribbean/English accent behind me.  
  
"Of course I do, Anamaria. I sure as hell didn't come all this way ta' turn coward now. If I can't face this, what else can't I face?"  
  
"Ye' never know how far ye' can go 'til ye' go there."  
  
"'S damn right."  
  
"Well, I won't abandon ya' yet, Swallow. Come, we take the first boat to the island."  
  
Yippee, I think, my mind's voice thick as petrified wood with sarcasm. The bitter thought reminds me of how I felt in the house of Turner, and I'm deeply saddened by it. Of all the times to feel resentful and morose, this is NOT one of them. I should be humming with excitement, but I only feel apprehension. Our boat runs aground, and Anamaria and I leave the crew to their jobs of unloading crates of illegal rum onto the beach. Apprehension digs in now as she leads me into the lush foliage of the island, sand becoming brown-streaked with dirt beneath our feet. After what seems like hours but could only be minutes, I see a simple cottage among the greenery, little more than a hut. It's unpainted, and the gray wood looks mossy. There is a small, sand-covered porch in front with a chair. A man is sitting in that chair, polishing with a rag a cutlass on his lap. His eyes are closed.  
  
"Jack," Anamaria calls to the man as we near him.  
  
His head rises in our direction and his closed eyes open slightly. I can see that whatever their color they are obscured by a milky fog of blindness. The rest of his face, which is surrounded by a thatch of dark gray hair, shows the years like badges of honor, including the scars around his sightless eyes. He licks his lips and says, "Anamaria. Fine day fer a visit, ya' think? An' who's yer friend?"  
  
"Beggin' pardon, sir," I announce my presence once I've worked enough spit into my mouth.  
  
"Aye," he says. He regards me- or I guess my voice as he stands up from the chair and lays the spotless cutlass against the cottage's wall, "and what ye' be wantin', eh, lass?"  
  
This catches me by surprise, but I stick to the plan I scraped together at the table, if slightly adjusted. I have to remember, this is Jack Sparrow I'm dealing with. My voice is tremulous as I say, "H-how did you know I was a girl?" I blink wide eyes at the man even though I know he can't see them.  
  
He, with the ease of years' experience, leans back slightly and gifts me with a perfectly executed, gold-gilded smirk. I suddenly find myself wondering if MY smirk is anything to compare to it, and know I'll soon find out as the words glide from his mouth, "Because, luv, I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, an-" He freezes mid-boast, plays back his words in his mind, and then squints with suspicion. "Who are you?"  
  
I ignore Anamaria's snort, and introduce myself, "Some call me Gawain Burns." I'm feeling much better now than I did aboard the Osprey, at least good enough to do some bragging, "Ye' may've heard tell o' me."  
  
Jack's face is inscrutable as he says bluntly, "Nope, never heard o' ya'." I continue to grin, unswayed by his quick attempt to stunt my arrogance. No luck there, Captain, this isn't some wharf rat you're toying with. "Now, tell us yer true name, eh? The one yer parents gave ye'?"  
  
Moment of truth time already? I drop any pretense of jocularity and fix a gaze on the Captain. He's still in a joking mood, now that I can see them, his cloudy eyes dance with it, but I know that won't last long. "My parents, ya' say? Well, if ye' must know, they didn't give me my name."  
  
"Ye' don't say," Jack murmurs as his face smoothes as much as the wrinkles allow into cool solemnity. He's a quick one, blind or no, and no one can tell me otherwise.  
  
"Aye," I continue, "In fact, I don't rightly know who gave me my name. What I be wantin' here, to answer your earlier question, is to find out. And I think you can tell me."  
  
Jack recoils from me as only he can, by standing very still, his stance screaming with caution. His voice is a ruddy mix of hope and dread as he murmurs, "Guinevere?"  
  
I allow a small lip quirk before bowing once more then looking him straight in his eyes, a murky reflection of my own mossy brown, "The one an' only, at yer service, *Captain* Jack Sparrow."  
  
"Interesting."  
  
"Very interesting."  
  
  
  
A/N: There, it's done. The moment you've all been waiting for. It meet your collective standards? Won't know if you don't tell me... To reviewers:  
  
Meaghan1: Newbie! Glad you've enjoyed so far. It's no fair, though. You only had to wait- what? One chapter? - before the great big question was finally answered. I got folks been waiting since the very beginning for me to give up a secret or two. Well, count your blessings, hon, and keep reading.  
  
PED-sarah: To tell the truth, I have no idea what Stanton would say, if he found out. And about the title, I kinda had to veer off course of that particular plot to reunite Jack and Guinevere, hope you don't mind. By next chapter or two, we should be getting back on track with that. Finally, sweetheart, in case you haven't noticed yet, I'm ALL ABOUT the secrets and amusing twists. I doubt you'll find a story of mine without at least one.  
  
Calex: I think my favorite cool word of all time has gotta be mellifluous. Isn't it great? I think so. Anyways, hope this chapter was to your liking. Don't worry, I've still got a mystery or two up my sleeve, this wasn't the biggie you probably think it was. Keep reading!  
  
Fire Pixie: Mix-up? Uh, okay, apology accepted ^^. Glad you're glad the boys are back, you didn't really think I'd leave 'em out, did ya'? Well, I bet you feel like Ms. Silly now. LALE, huh? To be honest, not really looking for an ego bruiser, more like something along the lines of an air pump. Know anybody that's good for that? Keep reading, this isn't the ultimate climax it seems.  
  
Autumn: A thousand thanks for the compliments, hope you've enjoyed this chapter. As for "Quest of Wingchild"- aw, you poor thing. I hate to tell you this, but Lin and the gang will have to wait for Guinevere and *her* gang to finish up. And then there's my Artemis Fowl fic to take care of... All in all, "Quest of Wingchild" is about third on my list of things to finish. Sorry, but them's the breaks, kid. Hey, at least you've got "Mermaid's Ransom" to keep you company and, who knows, maybe your lovely review will spark a hint of inspiration in a Wingchild-like direction. 


	9. You don't want to know

A/N: Hello again, my fine readers! Sorry for the delay, I hope you understand that one can't just drop a bomb like that without taking some time to collect herself and order her thoughts... Well, that and I wasn't sure just how the hell I was gonna connect where I was to where I want to be. I think I've got an idea now, so we'll see how it goes. Review responses at the end of the chapter!  
  
  
  
That's the problem with dreams and long-awaited conclusions; they never meet the dreamer's expectations. Ever. After the astounding revelation of my true name, I seem to be forgotten by Jack and Anamaria as they move on to business talk and things I can't quite hear through the haze of rage building up inside of me. The only indicator that I'm not invisible is the glances Jack's sightless eyes keep shooting in my direction. Then I'm being guided away by Anamaria, away from Jack and the hut, back across the dirty sand and out to the beach.  
  
"What the hell was that?!" I splutter with indignation as Anamaria reloads the boat with Jack's waste, which mainly consisted of empty bottles. "He acted like I didn't exist! Does he treat all his illegitimate daughters this way, or am I just special?"  
  
Anamaria rounds on me, her eyes angry, "Well ye' did just negate the smartest thing he ever did!" She stops and looks at me a moment, turning something over in her head. When she continues, her voice has calmed, "Ye' just don't understand, Guinn. Twas hard enough lettin' ya' go the first time, but then he knew he was doin' da' right thing. Now you've come back, everything he didn't want ya' to be and... I'll talk to him, alright? Don't know what good it'll do, if any, but I'll try."  
  
"Thanks, Anamaria."  
  
She walks over to the boat and sits between the oars, then looks up at me, "You comin'?"  
  
I look at the little boat, then back across the water to the Red Osprey, and then at the stretch of white of the beach and the lush vegetation of the island. More boats are running back and forth between the Osprey and the island, but farther down the beach is fairly deserted. "I think I'll stay here a spell, Anamaria. Got some thinkin' ta' do."  
  
She lets out a small laugh, "I'll bet you do. I'll return once I get ta' the ship, you can come back wid' me after I talk wid' Sparrow."  
  
I help push the boat into the water, and then she is rowing away from me, out into the warm Caribbean water. I wander along the sand, half a mind to find my way back to the cabin and force Jack to acknowledge me, half a mind to swim back to the Osprey and start figuring out the quickest way back to Port Royal. Considering the impossibility of both options for one reason or another I continue to walk the line, the strip of white between the water and the land. I reach a piece of driftwood and sit down, trying not to focus on any one thing to think about. Amazing how one's troubles can seem so far off until they are right in front of your face. Then you can see how large they really are, and how they loom in front of you like a rock wall, impossible to move or overcome. My only hope now lies in a woman I hardly know, and that's no way to scale a wall.  
  
But what am I hoping for, exactly? I don't know. The realization hits me like a shower of cold water. What was I hoping for in the beginning? Did it really have much of anything to do with Jack? Thinking back, I believe I was simply trying to get out of Port Royal, any way I could. Discovering my ties to Captain Jack Sparrow was the perfect excuse to abandon my home and family and throw myself headlong into unknown territory. Well, here I am, deep into not only unknown, but possibly *enemy* territory.  
  
"Boss?" I turn to see Pete walking towards me. He stops and stares at me.  
  
"What?" I say, but find to my surprise that my voice is choked with tears.  
  
Lifting a hand to my face I quickly wipe the sneaky drops from my cheeks, but I know it's too late. Pete's already got that look on his face I prayed I'd never see since becoming Gawain. It's the look given to all crying girls, pity and confusion, and I hate it like I hate my stupid brain for getting me into such problems. Pete sits next to me on the log, and I curse vehemently inside because I know what's coming. He's going to try to comfort the crying girl, because that's how his mother raised him. But I don't want to be comforted. I don't want the warm, strong arm around my shoulder and the soothing nonsense-words whispered gently into my ear that are shrinking my anger as it grows inside, making it a hot, confused, little ball in my stomach. If things go on like this, I can never be the rough captain of this tiny, ship-less crew. That job will fall to a real man, maybe even Pete himself. I can't allow that. I stand up from the log, fists clenched and tears held tight inside, and boil the sea with my gaze.  
  
"Just go, Pete," I grind out, "I don't need consolin', I just need ta' think."  
  
He gets up, but of course he doesn't go. Why would he? Why would he listen to anything an obviously fragile girl would say? No, he actually steps closer to me, "Ye' don't have to do this thing alone is all. Yer not alone- I just wish you'd trust me for once, Guinevere. I been thinkin' since ye' told us who you truly are, an' I know now how much ya' keep to yerself, an' that I hardly even know you *at all*." My hand completely involuntarily grips his when it's placed in mine. It's horribly warm and comfortable, "But I'd like to, if ya' would let me."  
  
I don't want to look up, *honestly*, but my eyes are drawn to his like a moth to a flame and I see their brutal sincerity and I can hardly breathe. I have to stop this now. "Trust me," I say, my voice barely above a harsh whisper, "You don't want to know."  
  
Pete blinks and seems to exhale a breath he was holding. He steps back, I didn't realized how close we were, and drops my hand like I'm a corpse. "Right," he says as he stumbles backwards, away from me, "Well, I'll just be gettin' back ta' the ship, then. Boys don't know I'm gone an' all. You'll be back with the captain?" I nod, "Alright then." He turns and strides across the beach, breaking into a run to catch one of the crewmen's boats before they ship out. Looking out over the water I spot Anamaria on her return trip. I watch her close in on the beach, drag the boat out of the water, and stride into the island's interior. I make a decision and sprint inland as well, hoping I can find my way back to the Jack's hut.  
  
  
  
A/N: Sorry to leave you all with a cliffhanger again, but I don't think I've got enough emotional gasoline left after Pete and Guinn's talk to get me through the next big conversation- Oops, hope I didn't give anything away. To the angels on my shoulder:  
  
WrdPntr: Whoa, my spell check just suggested that I spelled Ardent extremely wrong when I typed your name. Anyways, you seriously think I wouldn't respond to such an amazingly nice review as yours? What do you think I am, a monster?? Well, I hoped you liked this chapter. You seem like you dig action to me, and I realize just this side of nothing happened this chapter. Be patient, and realize that that mermaid's ransom ain't gonna find itself!  
  
Calex: I decided that besides mellifluous, my other favorite words are kvetch and craptacular. Glad you liked the chapter! Oh, and I'm not evil, I'm just creative. A fine line, I know, but what are you gonna do?  
  
Autum: Hey, glad you liked the last chapter, bit of a twist there, huh? If you want twists you should check out the new chapter of "Quest of Wingchild". Just sayin'...  
  
MeaghanM: Sorry, hon, gonna have to wait a bit for a Jack/Guinn talk. Keep reading, though, it's coming!  
  
pippin the hobbit elf: Hee, isn't Pippin awesome, though? Particularly in "Return of the King", he got to *sing*!! Anyways, you asked a lot of questions that I just can't answer, I'm afraid, for one reason or another. Guess you'll just have to keep reading! Hope you get your laptop fixed soon, I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't log in on mine.  
  
Fire Pixie: Hello, my friend, hello! Glad you liked the last chapter, hope you're not too bummed about this one. I'm sorry, but that's the way my muses work. Sadistic little bastards, ain't they? What can I say? They just don't like to see happy reunions where they would never take place. But to put you at ease at least some, I don't expect Jack/Guinn relations to stay as rigid as they are now. You see, I'm stalling, because I'm quite petrified of trying to write Jack Sparrow. That's what comes from reading much too much bad PotC fanfiction. Next chapter I'll be taking the plunge- oh, I can feel my stomach acid bubbling already...  
  
Andraaia Taka-ichi: Newbie! That's some kinda name you got there. Few more a's than my spell check can handle. Keep reading, and I'll keep writing. Uh, wasabi! 


	10. You don't say?

A/N: Wahoo, we've hit the big 1-0! And now for the moment you've all been *really* waiting for!  
  
  
  
I'm about to give up hope of ever finding Jack's hut, and possibly all human life, again as I'm tramping through the sweltering green of the island's interior. But then- what was that?- a flash of slightly brown green between two of the infinite number of leaves to be found in this godforsaken place. I scramble through the clinging growth with renewed energy and am almost at the hut before I realize I may want to be quiet if I intend to eavesdrop on Jack and Anamaria's conversation. Crouching low, I creep silently until I'm below a convenient window that was obviously made simply by cutting out parts of the planks that make up the wall. And I find my arrival is not a moment too soon as I peer around a corner of the hut to see Anamaria advancing on it with a very clear purpose.  
  
"Captain!" she calls, "Come out here *now*!"  
  
It's an order, she knows it and he knows it, but Jack still ambles slowly outside as if he can turn back any time, like he's letting her think she can order the great Captain Jack Sparrow around. It's when the echoes of her slap fade away that my careful observations about their relationship are tossed out of the proverbial window.  
  
"Ya' always were a quick one, Anamaria. Never quite knew when ye' would strike wid *that* little specialty move," Jack grumbles, seeming weary instead of annoyed as he massages his cheek.  
  
"Dat's because I only did it when ya' deserved it, Captain. Now, let's talk about exactly what ya' don't want to talk about, eh? Ye' got a very upset little girl wanderin' out on the beach, ya' know dat. Ye' also know it didn't have ta' go that way-"  
  
"Of course I know! Don't ye' think I haven't wondered every bloody *day* what I'd do if she showed up? Let me tell ya', what jis' happened most definitely *wasn't* it. O' course, most o' my plans involved bein' able ta' see her face, but things didn't work out like that, did they, Ana?" His last three words are as sharp as a sword's edge, as full of meaning, too. Anamaria balks, but rallies.  
  
"Don't tell me yer gonna hide behind what happened an' let her go again, wid'out a word between ya'? Dat's not the Captain Jack Sparrow I know-"  
  
"Must I remind you, the Captain Jack Sparrow *you* know died six years ago, that's what I told the whole crew, *includin'* you!"  
  
"Then why do ya' let me call ya' Captain?" Anamaria smiled and folded her arms in front of her triumphantly as Jack mulled over the question, coming up empty-handed.  
  
There is a silence for a few moments. I wish I could see Jack's face, I probably would be less confused as I watch him walk back into the hut quicker than I'd have thought blind people would dare to walk. I carefully peek over the window's sill of sorts to see Jack calmly rummaging around the cabin, his hands running over the one table, his bed, the wall as reference between thorough pillaging of certain areas. I find myself ducking down as he nears the window, my heart beating in my chest and my eyes squeezed shut like he would actually see the top of my head if it pokes out above the sill. The noise changes from the sounds of searching to quiet footsteps and the movement of a chair in use, apparently Jack's found what he was looking for.  
  
"Come in, Swallow," Jack says from somewhere inside the hut. My eyes fly open, but I don't move. "Come now, don't be shy," he continues, "Nothin' ta' fear from ol' Uncle Jack. Got a present fer ya', as a matter o' fact."  
  
I stand slowly until I'm framed by the window. I see Jack sitting at the table in a corner of the hut, facing me. His hand is laid on a small object on the table, covering it. He's waiting, smirking ever so slightly. I swallow nervously, but then berate myself. What's wrong with me? Why'd I act so big and tough before, only to turn into a fearful child now, of all times? Taking a firm breath, I stride around the hut and through the door, past Anamaria who is leaning against the wall outside. I drop into a chair across from Jack, whose smirk widens into a grin.  
  
"Tha's more like it," he says quietly, "Well, luv, ye' have made it this far, I'd like ta' hear the tale."  
  
I barely blink, but launch into the story. I tell him everything, finding the letters, coming to Tortuga, even how miserable I was with Will and Elizabeth. He takes it all in, sometimes laughing at the more entertaining bits, sometimes frowning at the more serious bits, but never interrupting. I end by telling him about my other mission, collecting the mermaid's ransom. I expect him to scold me just like the rest, tell me to go home and forget this foolishness, but Jack does nothing of the kind. He smiles, a true smile, not a smirk, not a grin, and says, "If yer any blood o' mine ye' should be able ta' use this wid'out any trouble." He slides what was under his hand, which turns out to be a small, weather-beaten box, across the table. Opening it, I see what may at one time have been a compass.  
  
"This is broken," I say flatly.  
  
Jack looks momentarily frustrated, like I should have gotten it immediately. Then his face changes to that of a teacher dealing with an exceptionally thick child, "Tha' doesn't matter. If you're any kin o' mine, it'll guide ye' straight."  
  
"But how?" I cry, now *feeling* like an exceptionally thick child, "It's broken! Where'd ya' get this hunk of junk?"  
  
Jack looks for a second like he may snatch the decrepit navigational tool from my hands, but he changes again, this time looking reminiscent. "Got it from some girl, long time ago. In... wait, where was it?"  
  
"Tortuga?" I offer.  
  
Jack curls his lip like I just said something distasteful. Thinking on our mutual encounters with the pirate city, maybe I'm not far off. "Nah, not Tortuga... Singapore! Yes, Singapore... wait, no! Not Singapore, but close to it." Jack stares sightlessly into the distance, reaching with his mind for the lost memory of a girl not from Singapore with a gift just for him, "An island- kinda stumbled 'pon it, wasn't even on the map!"  
  
My ears prick, "You don't say?"  
  
"Aye, seriously! She said it'd never steer me wrong and only I an' my blood kin could use it. To all others, nothin' but a busted ol' compass."  
  
We both stare at the ancient box in my hands, and the wheels of my mind start turning again. Thoughts of blue water and bright sky and piles of gleaming gold float among the gears. "Thanks Jack."  
  
He doesn't say anything, but puts his hands palm up on the table. Instinctually, I place my hands palm up in his. He pushes them together, so that between his my hands are in a prayer-like position. His head falls forward in the slightest of bows over our hands as he says, "Yer welcome, Swallow."  
  
  
  
A/N: I am a genius. Quick, somebody put me on a stamp! But really, I actually wrote that bit with the compass *ages* ago, and didn't so much as glance at it until yesterday, when I realized, "Holy crap! I've already written my Guinn/Jack conversation!" Well, after that I saw no point in delaying writing this chapter, hence this chapter coming so early and being so short. To the lights of my life, the reviewers:  
  
Calex: Oh yes, there is a great difference between evil and wicked. Hope you don't think I'm too much of either with this short chapter. Really glad you li- loved the last one, I was a little worried about it. I think I'll let you decide just how much genetics is shared between Guinn and Jack, and just how much emotion is shared between Guinn and Pete. Thanks for the encouragement, keep reading!  
  
hummer: Newbie! Nice to see ya', glad to have ya'. In answer to your question, why yes of course I had to leave it there! You know all ff.net authors are really torture masters in disguise, j/k. Hope you liked this chapter, hope to see you next one!  
  
Andraaia Taka-Ichi: Glad you like it so far, keep reading!  
  
Fire Pixie: My dear, do you know how much encouragement your reviews give me? If you don't, know it now: TONS. Guinn's unpredictable? Oh, that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about one of my characters! Sorry this chapter is even shorter than the last, but you must admit with all the milestones we've been zipping by with Jack and everything, I figure quality is better than quantity. See ya' next chapter! 


	11. Bloody women pirates

A/N: Been a bit, hasn't it? Sorry about that. What can I say? Unfortunately the Powers That Be have *not* seen fit to smite school and my job and everything else except my laptop and Internet access just yet. Patience I'm afraid may be the ultimate virtue in this game, my dears.  
  
ALL READERS PLEASE READ: I've got a new idea for a Buffy the Vampire Slayer fanfic. If any of my wonderful readers digs Buffy, I'd appreciate an email a very great deal. I have some plot questions that I really need answered if I want to keep the more militant Buffy fans from slashing my throat with an axe or something to that effect and also if I want to write a decent fanfic. Hopefully you're all ff.net-literate enough to know how to find my email address, but just in case, it's LilyangelV83@aol.com. Thanks!  
  
  
  
I sit back, cradling the compass between my hands, and watch Jack a moment. "All right. I told a tale with you in it, you tell me a tale with me in it."  
  
The man's brows lower over his milky eyes, "Beg pardon?"  
  
"Oh, don't tell me you don't know one. I'll bet you know a great one. The first one, in fact. Let's hear that one."  
  
Jack scowls, sitting in stony silence like a stubborn child.  
  
I'm tempted to continue on my jovial, just above teasing route, but I change course, letting the smile slide from my face and voice, "You know now how long I've come just to hear it, Jack."  
  
"By the Powers, yer right," he finally says with a lop-sided smirk, "It was a dark and stormy night-"  
  
"Don't lie." I'm feeling an anger start to bubble in me, and I wonder if he can feel my glare, "Any story that begins that way is just that, a story. I came for the truth, and I will get it, one way or another."  
  
"For the love o' bloody God an' country," I hear from the door. Anamaria stalks in, dragging the chair from outside behind her. In one smooth movement she is sitting in it at the table. "Pair o' pretentious popinjays you are. If yer happy ta' be the clam today, Captain, that's yer choice. I'll tell Swallow the story, I was there."  
  
Jack's scowl deepens, like Anamaria's just kicked over the board of a game he was winning, but he says nothing. I'd hoped to hear it from Jack's lips, but I find myself perfectly willing to compromise as Anamaria begins, "We were docked at a dive in Singapore, just 'bout ta' ship out. Jack an' I'd gathered the crew an' were walkin' down the pier when I catches sight o' dis bundle plopped right at the end of the gangway. Pick it up; find a slip of a baby girl swaddled in rags. No note, nothin', 'cept a name scratched into the fabric in cheap ink. Guinevere."  
  
"So you took me aboard?" I ask, almost laughing at the mental picture of a group of hardened pirates peering at the tiny infant laid at their gangway.  
  
"Jis' what were we supposed to do, eh?" Jack suddenly snaps out of his silence, "Toss ya' off the docks? No, we brought ya' 'board, rags an' all. Ya' looked fragile as a piece o' seaweed, though. Didn't think ya'd survive long. But ya' did, obviously," he adds before I can, "An' we decided ta' send ya' to Will an' Elizabeth fer yer own good."  
  
That sounds like the end of the story, but I turn to see Anamaria staring at Jack with a peculiar look on her face. Almost like she wants to laugh, but can't remember what's funny, "Aren't ya' leavin' out some things, Captain?"  
  
Jack looks supremely uncomfortable, "Not that I recall."  
  
"Ye' must be losin' yer mem'ry then. Ye' don't recall what happened *after* takin' her aboard the Pearl? I certainly do." She leans over to me and whispers conspiratorially, "He don't want you ta' know how much he fussed over ya' dose weeks between Singapore an' the Caribbean. How he stayed up nights ya' wouldn't sleep. How he nearly hacked off Gibbs' head when he found that cut on yer arm. Don't fit wid his fearsome pirate captain image, ya' see."  
  
"Bloody women. Bloody pirates. Bloody women pirates. Can't keep a soddin' *thing* to 'emselves," Jack growls under his breath as Anamaria shakes with contained laughter.  
  
I pull up a sleeve and lay my inner forearm in the light splashing across the table from the window. The very faintest of scars shows up near the crook of my elbow, a slightly shiny line one will never see if they aren't looking. "What happened?" I ask as I examine this new and mysterious bit of me I've never seen before.  
  
"Oh, nothin' serious. Gibbs got a bit careless wid his dagger an' ya' had some light fingers, even then-"  
  
"Not serious!" Jack nearly jumps from his seat at Anamaria's nonchalant response, "He was pickin' his bloody teeth with a *baby* in his arms! You tell me what kind o' lackwit jimmy does a fool thing like that!"  
  
"Anyways," Anamaria continues, cool as a northern breeze, "By an' by Gibbs felt so guilty 'bout the whole affair he volunteered ta' keep an eye on ya' once we got ta' Port Royal. He still doin' his solemn duty, I assume?"  
  
"Oh yes," Jack scoffs, "Even spilled his worthless guts the minute Swallow caught the scent."  
  
"He might've had some help to that end," I admit, feeling the need to defend Gibbs, even if he *did* give me my first scar, "I suppose the gift of rather coercive gab runs in the blood." There is unmistakable pride in the smirk that creeps onto Jack's face, and I smile myself though his face is turned from mine, until something catches my mind once again, "This Swallow business. I'm assuming it's a nickname, me being with Jack so much. Sparrow, Swallow..." I trail off as Jack and Anamaria look at each other, "What? Am I wrong?"  
  
"We called ya' Swallow cuz ya' kept swallowin' things!" Jack says, sounding for all the world like a harried parent just come from yanking a new horror from his child's mouth, "Odd stuff, too. Odds an' ends 'round the ship. Nearly had a bloody faintin' spell I catch ya' 'bout ta' shove a nail down yer little throat. An' let me say ya' owe the crew more than one night o' sleep from listenin' to yer endless bawlin' when ya' found out what was digestible an' what wasn't- which was actually more than I would've thought. Ye' would expect some rope ta' break down at least a little..." Anamaria hums and nods a little in the memory of a horrible night I can only imagine, or maybe I don't want to. Without orders my mind conjures images of the pair sitting at a table, maybe this one, pondering the digestibility of- oh, say a belt buckle, for instance.  
  
"Oh," is all I can coherently muster.  
  
"It's gettin' late," Anamaria asserts, and I glance around to see that yes, in fact, the sun has dipped rather low on the horizon, "We'd best be gettin' back, shippin' out." She rises from her seat, then looks back at me, "You comin', Swallow?"  
  
Jack also turns to me, "I'm curious, girl. Jis' what were ya' plannin' ta' do *after* ya' found me?"  
  
In that instant I know how it feels to be the bug under the curious eyes of a small, undisciplined child. Things are happening too fast all of a sudden. "I should go back to the ship," I mumble and hurry out ahead of Anamaria. As it was in the Turner household, I can see in my head Anamaria's disapproving look at Jack, and his "what'd I do?" shrug. Then I remember that he wouldn't see her look, and walk faster.  
  
  
  
Hopes, like dreams I'm finding, can be just as disappointing to the hoper. Again I find myself having been going along my merry way, only to find myself smashed against another rock wall. Jack's question is a perfectly logical one, which *really* irks me. You've found him, Guinn, now what? Well, go for the mermaid's ransom, of course. Oh, that simple, eh? And just what about that whole middle ground where you have no crew, no map, and certainly no ship to ferry you to your marvelous destiny? And yet the call of treasure beckons me all the more now that it is my one goal left, the shimmer of it piled on a beach in great heaps glitters on the edge of every gloomy thought. These are the undeniable facts that make up the rock wall I keep slamming against. And I don't think there's much Anamaria, for all her broad strides across the beach ahead of me, can do to help me over it.  
  
"Bloody hell," Anamaria suddenly gasps. I look up to the dimming horizon to see the Red Osprey, but behind it a ways back and approaching there is another ship.  
  
"Who's that, Anamaria?" I ask as I gaze at the newcomer's billowing black sails. She doesn't answer beyond a harsh shout to get my bleedin' ass into the boat. In a flash we're on the water and moving faster than I thought a longboat could go, thanks to Anamaria's powerful strokes. As we near the Osprey I can make out figures rushing around on the deck, preparing for whatever this other ship may request- or demand.  
  
Anamaria's first mate spots us, and she yells to him, "Who the hell's followed us!? That better not be who I think it is!"  
  
"It is, Captain, it is," says the man, sounding like he's just delivered a death sentence, "It's Faulkner."  
  
A blue tapestry of swears explodes from Anamaria as she swings into action. Ropes are thrown and the longboat is pulled from the water. I have to trot to keep up with Anamaria as she stalks down the length of the Osprey's decks. "What's Faulkner got to do with this, Anamaria?" I ask over the shouting of the crew.  
  
"He's after Jack," Anamaria says simply, without turning to me.  
  
We pass my boys, but I don't stop to check with them, something else had most definitely caught my interest, "What do you mean? Why in the world would he be after Jack?"  
  
"Captain's made many enemies over the years, an' most wouldn't mind the sight of his corpse, even if he *is* harmless now," she says as she holds a spyglass to her eye and peers at Faulkner's ship, "I told you I keep Jack safe- well, now ya' see me in action." And then I'm left in her wake among the chaos on the deck, with nothing to do but watch Faulkner descend on us. Anamaria has left the spyglass on the railing, and as the ship moves it begins to topple over the edge. I catch it, and then bring it to me. It's heavier than I would've thought an empty tube would be, most of the weight coming from the lens. I hold it to my eye and focus on Faulkner's ship. The image is dirty and about as focused as a drunkard's vision, but my sight is brought amazingly close to the ship's deck. I immediately spot Faulkner from behind shouting something, and then two figures appear to the right of him. When I focus on them, my heart stops and I feel my jaw and stomach drop like anchors. Will takes Elizabeth into the protective circle of his arms on Faulkner's deck.  
  
  
  
A/N: Amazing how the human mind works, ain't it? To respond:  
  
TO ALL REVIEWERS: If you didn't read the top note to all readers please go back and do so, for the sake of future fanfics by yours truly. If you're enjoying this, you may just like what I've got cookin' in the old noodle once this little jaunt has reached its conclusion.  
  
Sunshinejedi: Keep up the good work? Will do, just as long as I have an audience to write to. And thanks for the compliment; it has turned out to be much more of a challenge to stay in the present tense than I first thought. To be honest, I can't wait to get back to the good old past. Tense, that is. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!  
  
Mo: Hey, let me tell you something right now: NO review is too long, got that? Anyways, yes, I know blind Sparrow is a bit of a downer, but I gotta separate my story from the rest of the herd somehow, right? And as for Guinn and Pete- well, let's just say I have *designs* on that pair. Keep reading if you wanna know what they are!  
  
Fire Pixie: **grins sheepishly** Well, I'll have to refer you to the top A/N as to updates... But I'm elated to have your seal of approval on my Jack, and I hope this chapter also gains that distinct honor. See ya' next time!  
  
autum: Eep, believe me; my muses are drastic enough in their measures to keep me writing for some time yet. About Jack's senses, I figure that six years or so of living on a deserted tropical island *alone* has gotta make anybody's senses just a touch sharper. Glad you liked the last chapter, keep reading!  
  
Calex: No, indeed I would not be nearly as wicked as my ff.net author quota states if I divulged delicate emotional plot information, I'm sure you understand. I will say this; I have *designs* on Peter and Guinn, never fear. Or perhaps fear... Hope this chapter was just as enjoyable as the last, keep reading!  
  
WrdPntr: Yes, I think I can fill in the blanks after "awesome awesome awesome..." Hope you enjoyed this chapter, I'll see ya' in the next!  
  
Andraaia Taka-Ichi: Yes, breathe, hon, remember to breathe. Hope this update was to your liking. See ya' the next!  
  
Taka-Ichi-Sisters: You're not of any relation to my dear Andraaia Taka-Ichi by any chance, are you? If so, that's awesome; I've got a *family* of fans! Not a legion, but I'll take what I can get. Anyways, ultra-glad you like the story so far, hope you liked this chapter, keep reading I'll keep writing, yadda yadda... Look, there's only so many times I can say all that jazz, you know the drill. 


	12. Welcome aboard the Black Pearl!

A/N: I'm writing this now more out of a sense of duty as well as a reason to respond to some rather thought-provoking reviews from the last chapter, sorry if it comes out like crap. To be perfectly honest, I'd rather be starting on the Buffy fanfic I begged you people to help me with last chapter. But I can't, for many reasons, including the fact that my plea for assistance wasn't even acknowledged by anyone. HELLO! PEOPLE! If I'm such an *amazing* writer and you all are loving this fic *so much*, how about throwing me a bone here! I. Need. Help. How much clearer can I be? Buffy fans, EMAIL ME! I need someone who has seen at least the last few episodes.  
  
  
  
Gripping the spyglass, I run after Anamaria, dodging the crew and ducking under the ropes. "Anamaria! Wait!"  
  
"A mite busy here, Swallow," Anamaria growls as she stalks among the cannons, checking for loose ties and the like.  
  
"We can't shoot at Faulkner," I declare. Anamaria whips up to look at me. "Will and Elizabeth are on there!" I thrust the spyglass at her so she can inspect the population of Faulkner's decks.  
  
"Dis day just gets better an' better, don't it?" Anamaria grumbles to herself when she spots the pair. She puts down the glass and squints into the middle distance, and I can see her trying to figure out which would be worse, blowing my parents out of the water along with Faulkner, or surrendering without a fight to his most persistent enemy. It's a judgment call I'm glad I don't have to make. "Hurley," she calls her first mate, "Run up the white flag." He starts to protest, but her sharp, "Now!" sends him running. Her scowl looks like she's just swallowed a gallon of sea water, but I can't hide my sigh of relief.  
  
"Thank you, Anamaria," I say quietly.  
  
"Oh, Swallow," Anamaria responds. She looks so lost and angry, and I don't blame her. Somehow I doubt she's been in many surrender situations. "Ye had better make yerself comfortable, he's got a few minutes ta' come abreast o' us."  
  
I walk down to where my crew stands among the Osprey's men, looking just as lost as the rest. Pete's gaze flickers on me, but he appears to find something more interesting to look at somewhere off deck. Stanton and the twins, however, find me plenty interesting, "What's going on, Guinn? Why've we stopped? Who's chasin' us?"  
  
"Well, um," I flounder, trying to think of a way to tell them without going into all the genetic details I've effectively glossed over so far in this odyssey. It's an old habit, keeping them only as informed as they need to be for a plan to be successful, and as it happens old habits don't just die hard, they also bite you in the ass. Peter looks at me, his face steady and unreadable, which only confuses me all the more. Why do I feel so bad when it's not even obvious he's upset? I know that look will be burned on my brain forever, through all my glittery golden thoughts. I know the only way to rid myself of the shamed tightness in my stomach is by coming clean, now, as Faulkner and my parents approach. "Boys, remember when I said we was goin' ta' meet the greatest pirate that ever lived?"  
  
  
  
And so, as the enemy descends, I spill my guts before a single sword is drawn. At the end of it all, Jack's letters, Faulkner, the ransom, I feel as hollow as a rotted out log. Somewhere in the telling I gave up my feigned accent. I'm almost ashamed of it now, for using like a cheap mask a thing solely belonging to those who earn it. Though now I have nothing to hide in, nowhere to run. They all know me, Guinevere Turner, horribly well, and I can only await their judgment. My only consolation on that matter is Pete. He looks satisfied, though not smug, and I try not to resent him the fact that with just one look he seems to have tricked me into doing just what he asked on the beach of Jack's island.  
  
"So, that makes *you* the daughter o' Jack Sparrow?" Tuck says this with the excited enthusiasm I would expect from Pete, had nothing- something? - changed at some point.  
  
"With any luck," I respond, "Still haven't quite worked out all the details. And that's Captain Jack Sparrow."  
  
"Full o' surprises, aren't ya', Guinevere?" Pete says quietly.  
  
"Hunh," Tuck says, "Imagine us led by kin o' the great Captain 'imself, an' not even knowin' it!"  
  
"Imagine," Tom replies to his twin, looking thoughtful, "An' as we speak yer supposed father's last great enemy is bearin' down on us?"  
  
I crane my neck and find the action unnecessary; a bridge is being constructed between the two ships. "I wouldn't say bearing, more like smugly strolling down on us." I stand and, followed by my boys, take a place among the Osprey's tense, worried crew. Anamaria stands before the bridge as Faulkner crosses it, her face is a mask of stone. I spot Will and Elizabeth as they follow after Faulkner's first mate. When all are onboard that are coming onboard, which include a few more of Faulkner's men, a deeply uncomfortable silence fills the air like a fog in which Anamaria scowls and Faulkner grins like a malicious alley cat. Suddenly, the cat grin is replaced by a God awfully friendly smile, and Anamaria's mouth drops open.  
  
"Anamaria," he says with almost too much warm familiarity, "So glad to see you again. Took us ages to track you down, but we did, didn't we?" he turns to his first mate, a tall, thick man with matted black hair pulled back, who smirks evilly until Faulkner elbows him with the greatest subtlety. The smirk grudgingly contorts to a happy beam, and my stomach turns. "Do I have a surprise for you, as well," Faulkner continues, and turns to Will and Elizabeth. While Elizabeth's eyes were scanning their surroundings, Will's have been watching Faulkner with unhidden confusion and the beginnings of suspicion. I feel a swell of pride. Though stupid at times, I will never hear Will Turner being called a complete imbecile. I have to say it would probably take a man with a large rock for a brain not to feel the tension sloshing around on the deck, but for having no idea what is really going on I have a feeling Will has figured out quite a lot.  
  
"Hello, Will, Elizabeth," Anamaria says. If her face is stone, her words are pebbles.  
  
"Am I correct that you may have under your care a certain someone of personal value to the Turners?" Faulkner continues, still all sickening smiles.  
  
To save Anamaria the trouble of coming up with some ridiculous lie, I step forward. Oh goodness, being under so much scrutiny in one day can't be good for my health. I can't even bring myself to look at my parents, only glare at Faulkner. I fear I might just have to punch that disgustingly kind smile off of the man's face, but am hindered by the pair of arms wrapped tightly around me. Tearing my gaze from the man to see what unknown is hugging me this time, I find my face filled with soft, sweet-smelling brown hair. Elizabeth has me in a firm hold; her face turned away, her head on my shoulder. My embarrassment turns to concern as her small gasping breaths tell me she is crying. I pat her arm gently, but I can think of nothing to say in comfort. After a few moments she pulls away far enough to look at me.  
  
"I'm sorry," we both say, and Elizabeth's watery grin has me grinning as well. Elizabeth pulls me to her again, and I try to enjoy it, but Faulkner is directly in my line of vision, a black cloud of fake happiness on the horizon.  
  
When we separate, Will has a hand on each of our shoulders as he says to Faulkner, "We won't forget this, Mr. Faulkner. We'll thank you every day for helping us find our Guinevere."  
  
"But of course, I hate to see families apart. And a runaway daughter is such a grievous thing," he looks at me then, shaking his oily head in disapproval. I want to spit on his boots. "But now," he continues, "I will have to ask one favor of you in return."  
  
"Name it," Will replies simply. Glancing around, I notice far too late that the men from Faulkner's ship have silently insinuated themselves into a half circle behind us.  
  
"You can be put in the brig. Men!" On cue we are surrounded, and Will and Elizabeth are torn from me. Other men are at work hustling the crew of the Red Osprey, my own included, through the door to the brig. I wait in expectation for a rough hand to restrict my freedom of movement, but it doesn't come. No, within two minutes the deck is empty of all but me, Faulkner, and a few of his men. The man turns to me, cat grin back in full force, "Now, my dear, do you have any idea what will happen next?"  
  
For once my mind is bereft of sly quips. Sure I have an idea, I have many ideas, each more horrible than the last, but all I can do is shake my head. The first mate and another man sidle up to each side of me, and I can feel their presences like the breath of a man-eating beast on the back of my neck.  
  
"No? Well, let me see if I can illuminate you." A quick nod has me being a little too thoroughly searched by the first mate. Tingling with revulsion after being released, I watch the swarthy pirate hand Jack's compass to Faulkner. He holds it before him, briefly examining the outside before flipping it open and peering into it. He smiles briefly, as if a suspicion has been confirmed. I wonder what secrets the old compass could possibly have to reveal. "Isn't it amazing," Faulkner muses, his eyes glancing from me to the compass, "how uncertain the outcome of a plan can be? One moment, your victory is certain, the next, everything is a-shambles and you must start all over again. That's how I felt when I discovered Sparrow's daughter was roaming Tortuga, and how I felt when Anamaria stole you from me.  
  
"But no matter, it all comes out right in the end." He tosses the compass to me, and I hold it close, like an injured bird. "Coincidences are amazing things as well, I'm finding. Do you know what you and I have in common?"  
  
I try desperately to think of something clever, but nothing comes. Shake. The members of Faulkner's crew that crossed the bridge emerge from the brig and at Faulkner's nod returned to their ship.  
  
"We both are after the same thing: the mermaid's ransom!" He smiles as if he's just done a magic trick. "And you will be the one to lead the way."  
  
I blink, "I don't know the way."  
  
The smile fades, and Faulkner just watches me quietly. There is something in his dark gaze that frightens me even more than the two strong men behind me, something that is twitching inside of him like a taut rope. His next words are as quiet and frightening as his gaze, "Oh, you will take us there. If there is anyone on these godforsaken waters that can find the mermaid's ransom, it is you." Another nod and I am being manhandled across the bridge and onto Faulkner's ship. The quickly fading sun casts long shadows over the ship's decks, and Faulkner calls out orders to the crew. The bridge is pulled in and great, night black sails are unfurled. As the ship begins to move, I am brought to the helm and chained at the ankles to the wheel's post.  
  
"But I *don't know* where it is!" I cry, frustration and anger quickly climbing the charts on my list of emotions. Though they don't claim the number one spot, which is currently held by fear.  
  
"Well you had better find a way quick," Faulkner responded with a cruel smirk, "We don't keep aboard those who don't pull their weight." He and the men with him laugh and begin to walk away, leaving me chained to the helm. "My advice is take a look at that compass," he calls over his shoulder, "Welcome aboard the Black Pearl!"  
  
I sit for a while, waiting for the crew of the Pearl to quit leering at me. It makes me think of a story about Jack Will told me, something about standing very still in a lagoon until all the sea creatures became accustomed to him. Then, I slowly stand up, holding onto the wheel for balance. My chains are simple, being the kinds of shackles they put on criminals feet so they can't run. The two cuffs chaff at my ankles and the chain holding them together around the stalk of the helm looks strong and free of ever so helpful rust. I look at the compass and think of Faulkner's advice. I'm almost tempted to do nothing, just sit in my chains and let the Pearl drift where she may, but I recall the fear I felt under my captor's quiet stare. Just the memory sends shivers through me. Besides that, I feel a curiosity welling up as I turn the compass over in my hands. And, as always, the promise of the treasure is filling my mind like smoke. I can almost see the glitter on the edge of my very sight now. I can concentrate on nothing but that, nothing.  
  
Taking the helm in a firm grip, I let the euphoria take me. I flip open the compass and stare at its mossy inside. My eyes lose focus, I feel as if I might fall into the compass's dark interior. My vision does go dark and in that dark I see the faintest glimmer in the distance, a little to the left. I feel the muscles in my arm stretch and contract in the order necessary to turn the wheel, and the glimmer moves in front of me- no, it's drifted to the right. The wheel turns- there, that's it. The glimmer grows as I keep it straight in front of me. I can't wait for it to cover my whole vision and resolve into heaping piles of gold on a sun-drenched beach.  
  
"You're your father's daughter, my dear!" a voice drifts to me. I smile. It's the last voice I hear for a long time.  
  
  
  
A/N: I daresay that wasn't as crappy as I thought it'd be! Now to respond:  
  
Butterfly Dreamer: Okay, I'm gonna end this thing once and for all, so listen up. I will now relate for you in story form exactly what happened when I named this main character and ALL of my main characters.  
  
Well, Rainne thought, it's time. Time to name this puppy. Standing up from her comfy blue armchair and gently setting her laptop on the carpet of her room, Rainne walked to her desk. She sat down in the black swivel chair, and reached for the desk's bottom right hand drawer. She retrieved from the dark interior a thin, medium-sized book that had seen better days. It was a book for baby names. Settling the book in her lap, holding it with her left hand, Rainne raised her right index finger and closed her eyes. With the thumb of her left hand she started letting the book's pages flick by quickly. After a moment's wait, she jabbed the raised finger into the fluttering pages. Opening her eyes, Rainne looked down to see what name the finger had landed on. Under the digit read the name Guinevere. That'll do, she thought, and placed the book back in the drawer. Now, she thought as she sat back down and put the laptop back on her lap, what guy name kind of sounds like Guinevere?  
  
Are we all clear now? I do not have any kind of obsession with King Arthur or Camelot or what have you. It was ALL the finger, I swear! Anyways, glad you like the story so far, keep reading!  
  
hummer: If it makes you feel any better, I never thought you were a guy. Hummer seemed like a rather unisex name to me. Glad my story can give you some joy in your time of need.  
  
Fire Pixie: Thanks for the compliment about my descriptive prowess, but it would've helped me understand what you didn't like about the last chapter if you actually *told me what you didn't like*. Hope you liked this one.  
  
Taka-Ichi-Sisters: **waves back** Cool, it's a family affair over in my fanfic ^^! And to answer your question, sure! The more the merrier, right? What's your idea?  
  
WrdPntr: No offense, but your penname is driving my spell check crazy, lol. Aw, you're so sweet, but I'm definitely NOT the best. Might I suggest the following far superior writers? Gatekeeper, Bombur Jo, March Hare, Tatiana3, Thyme in Her Eyes, whereistruth, DanniB, Harriet Vane, RaeLynn Skye, and wendybyrd. There, educate yourself! 


	13. We need Sparrow

A/N: Sorry for the extreme wait, what can I say? It's summer, and I expected just a hint more spare time than what I've been allotted. But let me say, these next few chapters are the most edited ones I've probably ever written. If there is _one_ grammar mistake in them, I'll be exceedingly surprised. Enjoy!

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(A/N: We'll be riding on Pete's back for this chapter, since I've so effectively put Guinn out of commission. Also, don't mind the border change, it's the last thing has yet to get right.)

"What do ya' hear, lad?" Anamaria asks Tuck, who, on the shoulders of the strongest crewmen, presses an ear to the deck's floor serving as the brig's ceiling.

"Not sure," Tuck says. I see him press his ear so tightly against the wood he winces, "Mermaid's ransom? Hey, that's ours!"

"They're headed fer the mermaid's ransom?" the captain asks, her voice suddenly tight.

"Guinn says she don't know where it is. Can't hear... Only Guinn can find it?" Tuck is dropped by the crewmen on Anamaria's nod as heavy footsteps cross the deck and silence reigns. Creaks and clinks tell us Faulkner's ship has moved away.

We don't stay in the locked in the brig for long after that. "An' what daft captain wouldn't know how to get out of her own brig?" Anamaria scoffs as she leads us all back above deck. After thankfully breathing in the fresh air, I scan the decks in search of Guinevere. I caught a brief sight of her just before we were forced below. She looked frightfully small and fragile as two of Faulkner's men closed in behind her. I saw no more. Fear is riddling me now as I find the deck completely lacking in Guinevere. The captain turns to me suddenly, and barks, "You, boy. Yer in Swallow's crew, aye?"

I blink, "Who's Swallow?"

"Guinevere- Guinn lad!" she cries with irritation. I nod quickly. Guinn may have become best of friends with the captain of the _Osprey_, but I freely admit intimidation in her presence. Though I think that's her effect on most men. "We need Sparrow. Go fetch him." Turning to the first mate, "Hurley, go wid him."

Before I know it, I'm rowing a longboat with Hurley towards the shore. My mind is whirling. What can I _possibly_ say to Jack Sparrow, the legendary pirate- not to mention Guinn's father? As I have been many times before, I'm struck with wonder and envy of Guinevere's sharp mind. I, faced with one of the greatest challenges of my life, can already feel my tongue tying itself in knots. How I plucked up the courage to speak to Guinn on this very beach Hurley and I have come ashore on, I will never know. But it's too late to ponder and plan now, as we descend into the island's growth along a narrow path until we reach a tiny hut I assume is where the great Jack Sparrow lives. Captain Jack Sparrow, I correct myself- Guinevere wouldn't want me to forget the captain.

Hurley pushes me towards the hut. I glare back at him, but it appears to make as much an impression as glaring at a wooden statue. I step onto the hut's sandy porch, fully intending to be brave, but not doing too good a job of it. _This is for Guinevere_, I tell myself. I think of her standing alone facing Faulkner as his thugs close in behind. That helps me push down the fear, replacing it with the anger I feel for the sly pirate on his black ship. Clenching my hands into fists and letting the anger be my courage, I enter.

"Who're you?" a voice in the dark immediately asks.

I squeeze my eyes open and shut, trying to see into the hut's gloom, "Pete, sir."

There is a pause, and I can just make out a shape sitting on the floor against the wall in the darkest corner of the hut. "Hmm," says the shape, "'S he gone?"

"Faulkner, sir?"

"Aye."

"Yessir, an' he's taken Guinevere!" I can't help the note of desperation in my voice.

The shape levers itself off of the floor and into a chair at the hut's lone table. It's now I discover Captain Jack Sparrow is blind. "Guinevere's a tough chit, from what I gather, she can take care of herself," Sparrow says. Not even the flinch of tensed muscle reveals a different opinion of his daughter's kidnapping.

My new desperation mixes with the old anger, and before I know it I've slammed an angry fist down on the table. "That's not goodenough! Yer Captain Jack Sparrow! I hear tell o' you, I know the stories. They say you killed a ghost pirate king. So why're you 'fraid of Faulkner?"

"Because he took my sight, that's why!" Sparrow suddenly roars, bolting from his chair, "He took my sight, and then he took my boat." He points out to sea, where Faulkner's ship is not even a dot on the horizon any longer. "Still sails round here, every now an' again. He knows I can hear her, see, I know every creak of her hull, every flap as the wind fills her sails. He comes an' Anamaria has ta' chase him off, 'cause there's nothin' I can do about it m'self." Sparrow sits slowly, as if his words have taken all the energy he possesses.

I'm still standing, feeling a right fool, not having a clue what to say. Somehow, I can only think of one thing, "Why'd ya' give up Guinevere?" I'm thinking of what she said on the deck before Faulkner arrived; her finding, Sparrow's tender care of her, her home with the Turners.

The captain's empty eyes shut and he says as if reading a script, "Gave her up 'cause I had to. She needed a mother, she needed a father. I wasn't either o' those things."

I speak, but it doesn't feel like it's me speaking. "You was a pirate. You didn't want her ta' be one too."

"No, I didn't. 'S a lonely, dangerous life, that's not what I wanted fer my child, assumin' she _is_ mine, o' course."

I give him a sour look which he doesn't see, and press on, "Well, she is becomin' one, ya' know. If she lives long enough ta' get away from Faulkner. So, I think you have a choice, sir, if ya' choose to do nothing: she survives, becomes a pirate, just as you hoped she wouldn't; or she dies, at the hands o' Faulkner. The Turners are on the _Osprey_, y'know, an' I got a feeling Guinevere would go back with them given half the chance. She looked right frightened on the deck with Faulkner. I don't think she really wants ta' be a pirate, I think she more likely jis' wanted ta' find you. He's takin' her to find the mermaid's ransom, you know it?"

Sparrow scowls, "A funny, funny ol' world, innit?" he says bitterly, "I know the ransom. Pr'haps better than anyone in the world, any man at least. An' Faulkner's gone after it, ye' say?" I nod, "He got the compass?"

"The compass you gave Guinn?"

"Aye."

"Dunno. Most likely, if it'll help find the ransom."

Sparrow thinks for a moment, "Funny how we call it a ransom, when it certainly ain't ransom fer anybody anymore. Why do ya' reckon we do that?"

I smile. If this isn't Guinevere's father, I'm a blooming wig. "Dunno, sir. Are you comin' then?"

"Aye. Won't let all my hard work keepin' Guinevere out o' me muddled life be keelhauled by some worthless guttersnipe."

My smile turns wry, "You sat in a hut on a beach fer the past seventeen odd years."

"An' don't think it wasn't hard work." Sparrow rummages around under the bed and comes up with a dingy hat and jacket, a pistol, and a newly cleaned saber. He asks for no assistance in putting on any of these items, nor in leaving the hut and walking to the beach. Hurley and I try to stay close anyway, just in case. He pauses on the shore and stands, I have no doubt he is imagining the horizon stretching out before him. "An' what might dear Guinevere be to you, lad?" he asks, "Plannin' ta' wed her?"

At this moment, I'm very glad Sparrow can't see me. I tell him honestly the conclusion I have arrived at many times since all this business began, "I doubt she'd accept me if I asked."

"Why's that then? She think she's too good for ya'? Not been scarred or maimed or what have you, have you?" He squints in the direction of my voice suspiciously.

"Well, she _is_ too good for me, sir. I could never do what she's done ta' get this far. She dressed as a man, lied to the Turners all those times, and survived Tortuga an' two pirate attacks. Now she's gotten herself kidnapped." I add quietly, "Don't rightly know what I'll do if I don't get her back." I fall silent, lost in my own dark thoughts. I barely register Sparrow's increasing discomfort.

"Right," he says with a cough, "So, how's about lendin' a hand to get me in this here boat?" I glance up then, it's the first time he's asked for help, but he is still firmly facing the water and scowling. Hurley has taken the oars during our conversation, so I take the legendary Captain Jack Sparrow's arm and guide him into the longboat.

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A/N: I know it's kind of short, but it's something, right? We're fast approaching the climactic conclusion of this tale, so keep on reading, ya' hear? To reply:

Taka-Ichi-Sisters: Hey, since there's two of you, does this count as two reviews, since otherwise the last chapter only got one? Thanks for the support, and thanks for reviewing "Slayer's Star". Chapter two of that is on its way, I promise. I'm trying to do a bit more revision than I usually do. Trust me; it will only be for your benefit.

About you guys' story, in case you haven't gotten tired of waiting for a response from yours truly, it sounds pretty promising. But I must warn you of the dangers of Mary Sue-hood for all potential original characters. I recommend "The Many MarySues" by Avalea to protect said OC from a fate worse than death; you'll understand when you read it. You can search for it, but it's also on my favorites list. Also, making sure all the dialogue you use from the movie is correct is gonna be a real bitch. Hey, if somebody doesn't warn you, who will? I did a "Don Quixote" fic and even with the words written out right in front of me it sucked copying it out. Good luck!


	14. Lead on

A/N: We're nearing the end, children. Soon I'll be free of dastardly present tense and its cohort, phonetic spelling. A warning to anyone planning a present tense fic, be prepared to commit. And don't be surprised by all the extra editing you have to do to make sure you didn't screw up somewhere, plus all manner of confusion regarding the verb "to be." Anyways, here goes, the final dramatic, explosive, amazing climax of "The Mermaid's Ransom." Enjoy!

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(A/N: Back to Guinn's P.O.V. Shock.)

I try to snap out of this trance or spell that seems to control me several times, but to no avail. I seem to be crouched in a corner of my mind, while my body works tirelessly for the invader. I can barely even feel the breeze swirling around me, or the sounds of Faulkner's crew on the decks. Or even Faulkner himself, who checks in every now and again. His inquiries seem to come from a great distance, and I find myself unable to respond to them. All I see in the darkness is the sparkling point of light on the horizon before me, and I'm torn between the part of me under the spell that wishes so fervently to reach it, and the part crouched in the back of my head, which is utterly terrified of it. This part relives all the events leading to this moment over and over. To it, the end is clear; if I survive, I will go home. For all the Sparrow blood in my veins, a pirate's life holds no attraction anymore. In it I see none of what I now want very badly: peace, joy, home. If I must return to the house of Turner and play the part of a spoiled girl-wig then so be it, but let this misadventure be forgotten. However, I always circle back to the inevitable. If I survive...

I don't know how long I am at the helm of the _Pearl_, guiding her maleficent captain and crew to the mermaid's ransom. I don't remember being fed or given water or taking a break from following the dancing point of light through the dark. This does not bode well for me. If Faulkner's not bothering to feed or water me, let alone allowing me to rest, then why will he bother keeping me alive once I serve my purpose? Oh, think, Guinevere, _THINK!_ I wonder if Anamaria has freed everyone from the brig yet. I know she can, but I also know she has precious little gift for strategy. She'll have to get Jack. And I doubt Jack will come. He didn't offer when I first mentioned my plans for the mermaid's ransom, why would he take an interest now? Because I'm his daughter? Sure, because he's been _such_ a wonderful father figure so far.

I bite back a surprised yelp when Faulkner snaps the compass shut and pulls it out of my hand. I'm suddenly exposed to reality once more. Blinking in the bright sun, I gradually make out an island. We have weighed anchor near the entrance of a small cove. Sighting directly between the two spits of land that curve into the cove's entrance, two rocks pinning a smaller rock vertically can be seen. The three together resemble a steeple. "Church Cove," Faulkner murmurs as he too gazes at the natural steeple with his fingers curled around the compass. It's revealed as we enter the cove in longboats that the steeple in fact tops a thick arch of rock girding the cove's shoreline. Through the small space beneath the arch I can see lush vegetation on either side of a path leading upwards. Faulkner greedily eyes the path, and I believe he would rub his hands together and giggle merrily were he not holding the compass.

"All ashore that's going ashore!" he calls and his crew laughs dutifully as they clamber onto the cove's shore. Faulkner thrusts the compass into my hands. "Lead on," he says.

His voice has regained that terrifying tight quiet. I'm afraid again, though I'm more afraid of going back into the darkness inside the compass. I try to resist, closing my eyes and turning away when Faulkner flips open the moldy case. I hear him chuckle, as if amused by my meager show of rebellion. I hate how weak I feel at this moment more than anything else. My nannies' meaty hands grip both sides of my head, forcing me to face the compass. Well, boys, I hate to say it but turning my head won't open my eyes. Too bad, so sad. But then another pair of hands grips the top of my head and thumbs pull up my clenched eyelids. I'm in the darkness so fast I barely have time to register Faulkner's grinning face above the prying thumbs.

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Again I lead the band of despicable pirates and their treacherous captain from inside the compass's stifling dark. I am not assisted in any way; if I fall over a root or into a stream I am hauled up by my collar and pushed onward. I wish the point of light would grow as I walk, but it doesn't. Because of that it feels as if I am going nowhere, just being knocked down and picked up continually by things unseen. It's not much of a motivator.

However, while the point of light refuses to grow, every now and again as I walk I feel a presence nearby. It appears before my eyes as the faintest of white lights on one side of my view, like the light of a candle through a cracked doorway as it falls on a white-washed wall. It brings with it a cool breeze in the ever-airless dark. It also seems to strengthen when I fall, only to dim again once my nanny drags me to my feet and pushes me forward. This presence soothes my fear as much as possible, bolsters my will to continue walking in the darkness while going nowhere. The presence relaxes me so much that the second time I am jarred from the inside of the compass it feels like being woken from a deep sleep by a firm shake. I find that's not far off, actually, as I register the body that has tackled me to the ground, knocking the compass out of my hands.

"Rusty, keep her out of sight!" hisses Faulkner to my nanny/tackler. The area where we've stopped has rocks of varying sizes scattered around as it inclines towards the mouth of a cave nearly hidden by tree leaves. Tree leaves also obscure the shore. Noon sunshine filters through the leaves, tinting the clearing green. This is all I can gather before I'm yanked behind and thrown against some of the larger rocks.

"This is getting old," I grumble, blinking to clear my head after having it bounced off of the rock's rough surface.

"Keep quiet!" Rusty snaps, poking a fat finger in my face.

Not even a smelly pirate finger nearly impaling one of my nostrils can impede the joy I feel as I listen to the proceedings outside our little hiding place. Jack's strong, rough voice rings out over the clearing, "Ye' just can't leave well enough alone, can ye', Waylan? Honestly, ye' got me ship an' all the booty therein, ye' blinded me- now you've gone an' pinched Guinevere an' me compass fer a treasure that isn't even yours ta' begin with."

"How did you beat us here?"

"Used the compass, didn't ya'? Just because ya' went inna' straight line doesn't necessarily mean you're gonna get where yer goin' first."

"You can't get somewhere faster than if you go in a straight line!" Faulkner roars.

"Clearly ye' haven't been on the sea fer long," Jack retorts, and not even my nanny can hold back a snort.

Faulkner decides to change the subject rather than get caught in a battle of wits with Captain Jack Sparrow. Not entirely stupid, that man. "You say I have no right to the mermaid's ransom- ha! I have more right to it than any man here."

"Any man to be sure, Waylan. An' where is dear Guinevere, eh?"

I blink, and risk a glance at my nanny in the futile hope for enlightenment. He shrugs. Jack is calling for me, saying I won't be harmed. Faulkner is ordering Rusty to kill me if I try to escape. The fat finger in my face is replaced with a dagger blade, suitably tarnished. I try not to think of the innumerable amount of infections surely to be contracted if I don't keep still.

"I beg to differ on that whole harmed issue, Jack," I dare to call out. I try to press my skull into the rock as the dagger darts forward in a warning jab.

"Guinevere! Are you alright?" I hear Will call out, and I don't know whether to be relieved or dismayed. I do know that this blade is making me miss a great deal of action going on beyond me and Rusty's cozy little hideout.

"Ah, Guinevere, with us after all," Jack remarks as if just spotting me in a crowd. "Well, Waylan, has it gotten through yer thick skull that yer surrounded, an' you've lost, an' we've won, an' it's time you quit all this foolishness an' hand over the girl?" I can see him in my head counting off the pertinent information on his scarred hands.

"I see no one surrounding me or my men; I see only a blind, old fool and his faithful terrier."

"An' now that may be," Jack says obligingly, "Or ye' may not see me crew because they're well hidden. Don't know 'bout you, mate, but I've been here before, studied the land. There's many places ta' hide in, to which I'm sure Rusty and Guinevere can attest. How's about it, Waylan, care ta' place a wager? You an' yer crew's lives say there are no pirates hidden in these here woods; I say they're crawlin' with 'em. Odds're fair even, I'd say, meaning you don't trust me an' I don't trust you."

My eyes roll around the top of my head in an effort to see over the rock, but are met with nothing but sunlit leaves. I'm too shocked to make a sound when I look back down and find not my nanny and his filthy blade, but Pete's smiling face over Rusty's still body. Scanning the undergrowth I can now make out various members of Anamaria's crew. I catch Tom, Tuck, and Stanton grinning in a nearby bush. "Jack's not bluffing?" I stutter in amazement.

"Nope, came ta' rescue you."

I smile hugely, joy welling up inside as I look at Pete. "My hero," I mumble as my cheeks redden. We're both grinning at each other like fools, until I hear my name.

"What does it matter exactly if ye' find the ransom 'r not? Guinevere's the only one can touch it wid'out sinkin' this entire island!" Oh great, I groan in my mind, what _else_ don't I know about my super secret past? I wish Jack would simply quit stringing Faulkner along and finish him. But, as I am now aware that Faulkner is the reason Jack is blind and without his beloved _Pearl_, I suppose it couldn't hurt to let him have his fun.

"Precisely," Faulkner says, "she carries the gold to my ship, as much as I deem necessary. Once finished, I kill her and begin my life as the wealthy man my ancestor should have been."

Jack is quiet a moment. In my mind he places a hand to his chin and carefully regards Faulkner's plan. "A fine plan. Simple, straightforward, very little to confuse. But you forgot one thing."

"Have I?"

"Guinevere's father is Captain Jack Sparrow. And, blind or no, he doesn't take kindly ta' havin' his child kidnapped an' killed by a man lower than a sea snake, savvy?" Jack gives an unseen signal, and the clearing fills with the sound of battle as Anamaria's crew attacks.

Pete pulls me from behind the rock and into the trees. "Hey," I protest, "Why aren't we fighting?"

"Yer father said ta' get you to safety an' he'd meet us."

Just as Pete's sentence ends I am enveloped in a monstrous hug. I can't hide my surprise or my slight disappointment when I find Will is the hugger, not Jack. But I dutifully hug back for a bit before asking, "Where is Moth- um, Eliza- Mother?"

"Actually, she's fighting," Will says with grinning eyes, "You wouldn't believe how eager she was to get here and- how did she put it?- 'Whip those bloody pirates within an inch of their worthless lives.' She's missed it, to be quite honest. Oh, Guinevere, thank God you're alright!" He embraces me again, and this time I don't hesitate to grip him just as hard. I think of the darkness in the compass, and how while in its clutches I wished to be home with Will and Elizabeth more than anything. It appears I don't have to worry about having a second chance. But I'm not leaving without getting some answers to a few questions.

"Father, why did Jack say only I could touch the ransom?"

Will looks uncomfortable, but begins, "Well, Guinevere-"

"Guinevere, _RUN!_" Elizabeth's warning comes a moment too late as someone barrels between me and Will. I find my back pressed against this someone, and a blade pressed against my neck.

"Always with the knifepoint!" I cry out before I can stop myself.

"Yes, it appears to be your assailants' weapon of choice quite often, doesn't it?" Faulkner says conversationally, taking a tighter grip on my arms.

"Elizabeth, how could ya' let him escape!?" Jack shouts as he and Anamaria enter as well.

"I'm sorry, Jack. He's a slippery one, I'll give him that."

"He got you again, Guinevere?" Jack asks.

"I'm afraid so," I reply glumly.

"Enough of this!" Faulkner barks, "Guinevere will lead me to the treasure now and you will all stay right here, agreed?"

"That simply, eh? Well, good luck with that wid'out the compass," Jack scoffs, "Tossed it in the sea m'self 'fore you got yer slimy hands back on it. Bloody hell, do things ever work out fer yer family, or is it always like this?"

Faulkner emits an enraged growl before grinding out, "_Fine!_ I'll just kill her now, how about that?"

I close my eyes as the sword bites into my neck, only to have them fly open again as I hear Pete cry out, "_NO!_" In a flash, he darts over, yanks me from Faulkner's grasp, and throws me to the ground behind him. Half a second later, two shots are fired. All is still as the smoke clears from each of the weapons. One gun is held in Jack's hand, another in Faulkner's. Two men stumble to the ground; one is Faulkner, staring at me in disbelief as the patch of red over his heart grows, and one is Pete.

"No, Pete," I whisper as I crawl to him. I feel a horrible emptiness in my stomach, as if I've been gutted. I take his hand, and pull his head into my lap. The bullet has buried itself in his stomach, leaving a raged hole that is bleeding so much...

"He's done for, sweet Guinevere," Will says softly to me. My eyes are filled with tears when I look up at him.

"But it's not too late to get the ransom," Jack adds.

"I know." I turn back to Pete cradled in my lap. He's still awake. We lock gazes for a breathless moment, and then his eyes close. I clench his stained hand all the tighter in mine. He will not be alone in the darkness as I was- as I feel I am becoming. My decision is made. I speak to the pirate while fighting the tightness in my throat, "Go on, Jack. This could be your last chance, you know."

Anamaria is the one to lead Jack by the arm up the hillside and into the cave, saying something about the crew already finding the ransom. I am left with Pete to wait; Will and Elizabeth have gone with Jack and Anamaria. The island begins to rumble, a warning of certain destruction. I can hear the whoops of joy from inside the cave at the end of the path as my friends collect their due before the ground falls from beneath their feet. I try not to picture the mountains of gold a short run from me. I try to focus on the sunshine filtering through the leaves, on the sound of the water in Chapel Cove, on Pete, on anything except the raging urge to push my injured friend from my lap and dash on to glory and riches. Finally I have to close my eyes and lean over him, pressing my forehead to his chest. As it becomes too much, a moan escapes my mouth and the darkness rolls over me, complete.

Then, white relief casts a soothing light before me. My eyes pop open, and I see a pair of feminine feet standing in front of me. They are bare and a pale olive color and so delicate they remind me of a newborn's. It seems an unspeakable crime for them to walk on the island's dirt- and detritus-covered floor. The toenails are round and milky like ten tiny moons. My eyes trail upward, taking in trim legs covered by a diaphanous dress in some lavender white silver cream color my mind can't process all at once. Hands are held behind the stranger, though I don't doubt they are graceful with nails also resembling tiny moons set in a pale olive sky. Finally I take in a face filled with silent compassion. Her eyes are dark, though not as dark as her jet black hair, which falls in straight locks halfway down her back.

"Guinevere," she says, and her voice washes over me and tears fall down my stained face. Images of cloud-tipped mountains, snow, arctic waters fill my head, soothing away the darkness that grips me. I realize this is the presence I felt as I led Faulkner to the ransom. The woman crouches before me, smiling like the dawn after a storm-filled night. She reaches out and strokes my cheek, leaving my skin tingling.

Pete's eyes have cracked open, and they seem to glow with her presence. He squints at the woman, and murmurs uncertainly, "Guinn?"

I blink in puzzlement at Pete, and then look at the woman. It's then that I notice how similar our faces are. The woman is a paler, slightly older version of me with dark, straight hair. The woman doesn't respond to Pete's incorrect address, but instead turns her gaze to the wound in his belly. The sadness and concern I see in her face almost overwhelms me as one of her hands rests light as a butterfly on the seeping hole. Again I feel she has been violated somehow when his dark red blood stains her fingertips.

"Is there nothing you can do?" I choke out. The pain I felt when Pete was first injured has renewed with a vengeance. I don't even bother wondering why I believe with such conviction this random woman can help at all.

She is still for a moment, and then holds out her hands in the same way Jack did in his hut, palms up, fingertips facing me over Pete's wound. Acting on the same instinct as before, I place my hands palm up in hers. She cups our hands over the wound, her eyes closed, and again I feel cool calm as if a high mountain breeze is blowing through my mind. Without guidance I picture that breeze flowing from our minds into the wound through our arms and hands. I see lavender white light shine between our fingers, and I hear Pete gasp. The light fades, and we remove our hands, revealing not a bleeding gunshot hole, but a fresh pink scar. It's my turn to gasp. The woman smiles happily, as does Pete, the natural red of his cheeks replacing terrifying white. Then the woman briefly searches around her before picking up from the ground something she had been holding behind her back. She hands me the compass, as moldy and mysterious as ever.

"So you can always find me," she says, locking gazes with me. She stands and turns in one fluid motion, walking down the hill and out to Chapel Cove. Pete and I watch in disbelief as the woman does not even change pace at the cove's shore. She continues walking until the top of her dark head disappears under the water's surface, and then we can see no more.

I look back down at Pete, "Are you alright?"

"I've never felt better," he replies, "What'd you do?"

"I don't know." I regard my palms warily. With little effort I can recall the feeling of a cool breeze inside me. When the darkness creeps back into my attention, that memory dispels it almost instantly. I'm grateful for that, but what little sensibility I have is beginning to ask questions. Who on Earth was that woman? What did we do to Pete? What now? Somehow the island had paused in its death throws just long enough for the woman to come upon us, heal Pete, and submerge mysteriously into the drink. Now the rumblings are as strong as ever. We stand up together and walk towards the clearing where Jack first ambushed Faulkner. The area is littered with the bodies of enemy pirates. We watch several crewmen laden with gold and bejeweled trinkets of various types dash down the hill and back to the _Osprey_'s longboats.

Tom and Tuck, a silk bed sheet filled to the brim with gold slung between them, stop when they see us. "Guinn, Pete! You'd better hurry if yer thinkin' of gettin' some of this grand swag!"

"There's more than enough for everyone!" Stanton calls as he dashes down the hill, his own haul nearly spilling from his arms.

"Too late, we're leaving!" Elizabeth says as she pushes back the crown that's fallen into her eyes. The shoreline appears much closer now; the longboats are knocking gently against tree trunks.

I reach out and halt Elizabeth's progress, "Wait, Mother. We don't need this gold. Why are you taking some?"

"Well, um- I didn't get any the last time I was in a treasure cave; I certainly wasn't leaving without some now!"

I start laughing, but it turns into a shout of surprise when Elizabeth takes hold of my sleeve and yanks me along with her. Pete gets dragged along as well, since our arms are so tightly linked. "Hey, Mrs. Turner," he says, "Look, I'm not dead!"

"That's wonderful, dear," she replies as she negotiates the increasingly soggy terrain while still holding on to all of the gold statues and lengths of pearls in her hands.

"Come on, Elizabeth, shore's getting closer," Will says as he guides his wife and us into a boat. He carries nothing, but his fingers are almost rendered useless by the number of very expensive-looking rings on them. Eventually all crewmembers are present and accounted for, Jack carrying both he and Anamaria's share of the treasure so she could get the two of them safely into our longboat. Other crewmen have loaded up the _Pearl_'s longboats with as much gold as they can carry, and I'm impressed with their speed and efficiency when it comes to looting treasure caves. By the time we are all safely outside Chapel Cove, Chapel Cove is under water.

"Drop me off at the _Black Pearl_, Anamaria," Jack orders.

"Hate ta' remind you, Captain, but yer still blind, no matter how dead Faulkner is. I've got my own ship ta' take care of, who's gonna guide you?"

"I believe the position of first mate is open, if Guinevere's interested," he turns to me, "How about it? I can tell ya' all about how ya' came to be, an' answer all the questions I'm sure yer dyin' ta' ask about Faulkner an' all the rest."

I'm speechless as emotions run through me. This simple proposition elicits so many different responses I'm baffled. I feel the old call again, the one that used to bring images of clear horizons and adventures to be had. But now I feel the darkness in it, the fear and the danger, and now I realize that people don't choose to be pirates. Other circumstances out of their control make pirates out of people from necessity. No such circumstances apply to me, and as such I am not a pirate. "I can't, Jack. I'm no pirate, no matter much of your blood is in my veins. And I think Will and Elizabeth can fill me in on my origins with little trouble." I smile at the pair, my benefactors, my parents.

"I can't tell it as well as Jack," Will says.

"I think you'll do fine," I reply.

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A/N: Onward, to the Epilogue!


	15. Jack and the mermaid princess

A/N: Hi, all. This'll be the last chapter, so boatloads of thanks go to my trusty and stalwart reviewers for all the kind words and support. It's been a bumpy ride; I appreciate immensely those who have stuck around for its end. If you're all not too frustrated with me for my delays and tantrums, perhaps I can hope to see a review or two tossed in the general direction of my other stories.

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"Okay, here goes," Will says, "The story of Jack and the mermaid princess."

I curl my legs up on the chair I sit in, "I like the title, anyway. But you forgot the Captain, and the Sparrow."

Will grins wryly at me, "Am I going to have a running commentary?"

"I haven't decided yet." This gets Elizabeth laughing as well.

"This'll take all day, by the looks of things," Will grumbles without anger, "As I was saying. The story of Captain Jack Sparrow and the mermaid princess." He pauses and Elizabeth and I nod our approval. He smiles and continues, "Captain Jack Sparrow was in Singapore finishing up celebrating yet another daring escape from the clutches of the King's Navy when he first heard of the mermaid's ransom. He was immediately taken with the story, and upon investigation decided it was worth his precious time to go after.

"He dragged as much of his crew as he could find back to the _Black Pearl_ and set sail. After several months of searching and under heavy threat of mutiny, he finally came upon an island not on any map. He went ashore, daring to hope he'd found it. He found nothing but a girl. She offered him and his crew shelter in the island's cove, as a storm was blowing in. Jack agreed, and harbored the _Pearl_ in what he named Chapel Cove after the strange rock formation. He and his crew set up camp along the shore for the night." Will hesitates here, obviously not wanting to go over exactly what happened next.

I rescue him, more out of the desire to continue the story than save him the embarrassment, "Jack bedded the girl, and thus I was conceived. Huzzah. Please continue."

Will smiles gratefully and proceeds, "So Jack and the crew of the _Black Pearl_ prepare to leave. Just before that, the girl came to Jack with a present-"

"The compass, right? That would only work for him and his kin?"

"Yes," answers Elizabeth. She picks up the story this time, "What Jack didn't know was that he actually _had_ reached the island on which the mermaid's ransom resided. Not only that, he also didn't know that the mermaid herself also resided on the island. And that he'd impregnated her with you, let alone the fact that she'd planned for all this to happen."

"Not too quick on the uptake sometimes, is Jack?"

"Certainly not. Anyway, the mermaid was tired of having her ransom hanging around. Her father and his subjects had no use for gold in their kingdom. So she decided to wait for someone from our world who was worthy to have the ransom. She also decided that the only one worthy would have to be someone with some blood from her kind in them. Only they would be able to touch the gold without destroying the island. So when Jack thought he'd successfully seduced this lovely island girl in truth the mermaid had successfully seduced him to accomplish her plan. When you were born she left you in a town so you could be raised by humans."

"That makes me part mermaid, doesn't it?"

"Yes." Elizabeth gives me a gentle smile, "Are you alright?"

I nod, but I can't help running through everything that has happened in my life I can recall, looking for clues that would have revealed this strange heritage. I find myself more than a little disappointed when I can think of nothing but my fondness for the sea or my admirable strategic capabilities, both of which in all likelihood come from Jack. I want to check myself for scales or something, but Will has continued the story.

"What the mermaid didn't count on was Faulkner."

I blink, "Faulkner?"

"Yes. Faulkner was the closest descendent of the man who kidnapped the mermaid and demanded the ransom in the first place."

"That's why he felt he was the worthy one." The realization makes me grimace.

"He had been obsessed with what he thought of as completing his destiny his whole life. He heard years later rumors that a Jack Sparrow had found an island no one had heard of before, and he hunted him down. When Jack refused to reveal the island's location, Faulkner flew into a rage. He grabbed a lantern and swung it into Jack's face. He threw Jack, bleeding and unconscious, into the sea. It's a miracle he survived, but blinded and without his ship Jack decided it was time to retire. He gathered together what little of his crew that had survived Faulkner's assault and told them to go their own ways and to never speak of him again. Anamaria sheltered him on an island on her rum running route."

"I wish I was the one to kill Faulkner," I mutter with growing rage. Elizabeth places her hand on mine and I call up the cool breeze inside to calm me.

"I believe that brings us up to date," Will says after a moment of silence, "Do you have any questions?"

"No, I don't think so." I stand up to leave, but pause and ask, "Can I go out for a bit?"

"Yes, dear," Elizabeth says, "Just be back by supper, alright?"

This sounds reasonable, "Alright, supper it is."

I'm halfway up the stairs before I hear, "And don't forget to take your dagger with you. Lord knows who you'll come across out there." I smile. Ever since the battle with Faulkner Elizabeth has loosened up about propriety and my role in it. I believe she is slowly becoming the mother she would have been had she not felt forced to comply with Jack's promise to keep me away from all things pirate. _There is hope yet_, I think as I go out the front door, tucking my compass into my pocket and enjoying the feel of my dagger in its sheath at my calf. Adolph scowls at me as he prunes some bushes. He's peeved that our game has come to an end and I no longer have to sneak out of the house. I spare him a sympathetic smirk. I also shoot a greeting to Gibbs as I pass, though I doubt he heard me over his snoring in his chair on our lawn. I wear a simple dress today, but no wig. Anamaria was right down there in the _Osprey's_ brig; my hair does need a trim. It is about an inch from brushing my shoulders.

"Can't a girl get a drink around here, Ricky?" I ask boldly and clearly as I take a seat at the old Mermaid's Tale. I'm pleased to see it's just how I left it, complete with Richard smearing the film more evenly around his vessels behind the bar.

He squints at me, and I relish his moment of realization, "Dear Lord. That you, Gawain?"

"Name's Guinevere actually. And before you start thinking inappropriate things about an innocent girl, it always was Guinevere. Now, can I have a drink, please?"

"Er, um, yes, m-miss," Richard bumbles around the bar and eventually produces a mug ever so slightly less dirty than the rest and fills it up. I sip it quietly and enjoy every time Richard glances back at me. I had no idea being a girl could be this fun.

"Hey, boss," says a familiar voice near my ear. Pete drops a quick kiss my cheek as he sits next to me. Somewhere along the journey back to Port Royal we passed that nervous, red-faced stage and acknowledged the fact that there was more than friendship between us. I don't know if I'll marry Pete, but I'm sure having a fine time as of now, and I'm starting to think that's the most important thing.

Pete is soon followed by Tom and Tuck, who arrive in their usual fashion. Richard approaches us all a-twitter. But his tirade loses steam as I blink in wide-eyed innocence at him. "Gawain! I mean, um, Guinevere! Er, you an'- um, you an' yer boys- you... Oh, bugger all." I flutter my eyelashes at his retreating form and Pete laughs.

"Hello, boys," I greet the twins as they sit down, "Where's Stanton?"

"He's scampered back to his folks," Tom reports, "Says the pirate's life ain't fer him."

"Got a plan today, Guinn?" Tuck asks the inevitable question.

"Well, boys," I say, "I've been thinking-"

"You're not turnin' wig, are ya', Guinn?" Tom asks suspiciously.

"How dare you insult my honor, Tom!" I say with my nose turned up in wig fashion perfected at innumerable dinner parties Elizabeth says I no longer have to attend, "I was going to say- before I was so _rudely_ interrupted- that I've been thinking. And I believe a girl will be able to get away with a great deal more than any boy, wouldn't you say?" We all laugh and I catch Richard muttering something about things never changing. Now that can't be right, Ricky. If things never changed, how could I be here, in a bloody dress, laughing with my boys? How could I know my ties to pirates and mermaids, for Heaven's sake? Things change all right, and I'm thinking it comes down to the person when they do. Some run from it, and pretend everything's fine, and some run up the sails and head straight for the horizon, and enjoy every minute of it.

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A/N: And so ends the saga of Guinevere, daughter of Jack Sparrow. Hope you've enjoyed it, I know I have. Review please, maybe check out some of my other stuff. Bye!


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